The Apple Pie Was Bitter
by Api Adore
Summary: Set several weeks after Swan Song. Dean's got the life that Sam always envisioned, but normal has never sat well with Dean. Will he break his promise, or will he watch soccer?
1. Last Wishes Broken

A/N: This is a drabble I just had to get out. Let's call it a coping mechanism, yeah? I'm a Dean Girl all the way, but come on! Unfairness, much? C'mon, Kirpke and Co.! Sam can't burn in Hell forever (even though Sam/Lucifer/whatever was seen _lurking creepily _at the end of the episode), and if it's not Dean who busts his baby brother out, then who will?

I also didn't know what to rate this, considering I only swear... twice? I think? So if this rating is too harsh/soft, y'all are gonna have to sue me.

But, uh, please don't sue me. Because I do this with love, not the intention of stealing/selling/pimpin' the boys. I love them just the way they are (but that don't mean I can refrain myself from writing about them!).

And my hatred towards Lisa is completely justified. As my friend put it, _"Dean doesn't love her - she's just the only girl left who'll have him." _

REVIEW IF YOU'LL HAVE DEAN! because Castiel only knows how much I'd love to have him. Also, I get so sad when people read but don't review. It makes me think I'm doin' somethin' wrong. *sniffle*

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Sports on a Saturday morning. Neither he nor Sam had ever been big on the whole organised sports thing. Dean had played T-Ball as a kid apparently, but Dean couldn't remember any of that. His memories – even the recent ones – were a little cloudy.

Ben played soccer. It's a little overwhelming when a kid you barely even know invites you to their soccer game. At least that was what Dean thought. He also thought that despite how amazing Lisa was, and how spectacular Ben was... things just weren't fucking working.

He missed the motels he'd once winced at. The grungy wallpaper and wiry sheets were an ache in his heart and whenever he looked around at the peachy walls of Lisa's house he had a shudder of uncertainty. He always thought the same thing: _I don't belong in a place like this._

He missed the driving. Oh _Hell_ how he missed the driving. Now his car just sat in the garage, waiting for the times when they needed a bottle of milk or a newspaper and someone would come out to drive her the three minutes to the local corner shop. He missed his music, too. Lisa didn't like music when they were driving. _Too distracting_.

Sitting beside Lisa at a soccer game, children and parents galore, Dean felt the burning need to _leave_ flooding through him like a charge of electricity. His fingers twitched. His face burned. The sun shone down on the field almost like a spotlight on the back of his neck; it was like the whole heavens were glaring at him.

Was Castiel glaring at him? Was Castiel even _watching?_ Did he even care anymore?

Someone scored a goal, and Dean got to his feet with the rest of the crowd to clap lamely as the kids ran pointlessly around the grassy rectangle. Lisa grinned at him, seemingly excited that they were there together watching her son defeat the Richardson Rockets. Dean just stared at her, not even able to fake a smile. He wasn't able to fake a thing. Too _hollow _for faking.

Dean wished he had his flask with him. He wished he wasn't there. Who the fuck wanted soccer games and carpooling? Who wanted kids and a girlfriend and a house?

While he was at it, since when had Dean Winchester kept a goddamn promise that didn't make sense?

Lisa was tugging at his elbow. "Dean, sit down," she said with a tinge of embarrassment. "Sit down!"

Everyone else was staring at him with confusion. He'd stayed standing when everyone else had seated themselves. The game was still going.

He blinked up at the sky. Was Castiel seeing this? Could he see? Was he seeing?

"Lisa," he said gruffly, turning his eyes back to her. "Look, I'm sorry, but this..." He waved a hand at the field. Someone scored. People clapped.

Her eyes sparkled. "Dean, please just sit-"

Dean tugged his arm out of her grasp and offered her one last smile. It burned his lips and made him sway sickly. She opened her mouth but didn't speak. She didn't stand, either. She didn't even try to smile.

Dean started weaving through the rows of irritated parents who were "_goddamn trying to watch the game, you idiot!"_ before breaking into a jog towards the parking lot. He dug his cell phone out of his jeans before he reached it, and he was ringing Bobby before he even had the engine started.

"Dean?" asked Bobby through the phone, his voice deep and familiar and painful. "That you, boy? Somethin' wrong?"

Dean managed to ask with a puff of tired breath, "Bobby, we need to break Sam out."

He dug up gravel as he revved the car out of the parking lot. Somewhere behind him children were playing soccer. Somewhere ahead, Sam was burning.

Now Dean just had to save him.


	2. I'm Involved Now

A/N: Okay, so I kinda wrote more!

I've no idea where this is headed, but if you'll stick with me, we can find out together, okay? :)

This chapter's from Bobby's point of view, because who wants to read about Dean on the phone in his car? Instead, you've got _Bobby _on the phone in his _kitchen!_ Much more interesting, yeah? Anyway, I'm already working on the next chapter - and don't fret, because this isn't going to be Bobby POV from now on, I promise! - and if you keep reviewing I'll be sure to write faster. Reviews are much like demon blood. They're so energy-giving. Heck, I even reply to reviews because they make me feel so lovely!

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With one calloused hand curled around a glass of whiskey and the other around his phone, Bobby Singer leaned back against his kitchen counter with a sad sigh. He held the phone tight against his ear, listening as somewhere across the country Dean started his car.

"Dean," he said patiently, sadness filling his tone before he had a chance to restrain it, "you know we can't just... just _dig _him up, don't you, kid?" He gulped the last of his whiskey down – swallowing the diminishing ice cubes without any thought – and he slapped the glass to the counter so he had both hands free. He immediately hooked a finger into the collar of his shirt and pulled it loose around his throat, giving himself more space to breathe.

Grunting angrily, Dean snapped, "Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot, Bobby." There was a hesitant pause before he added, "I know it ain't gonna be easy." His voice wavered as he spoke, and Bobby felt a twang of guilt over upsetting him. The guy had just lost his brother in one horribly twisted blow – it wasn't the time to be testing his patience.

"Cas is home playing happy families, so he can't just beam Sam back up to the land of the living," Bobby pointed out as gently as he could, wincing as he awaited Dean's angry outburst at the repetition of already common knowledge. When no such argument came, Bobby added, "There's nothing to be done, Dean. You know that."

"There's got to be something," mumbled Dean almost hysterically, like he'd lost all sane rhyme and reason and was now just deluding himself into things that would never come to fruition. Bobby knew the feeling. Didn't everyone? Who _hadn't _felt that way before? Well... maybe the normal folks didn't. Maybe that insane feeling of _I don't care how, I just have to get it done_ was something only found in hunters. Either way, it rang clear through Dean and it shook into Bobby's ear like a mad colony of bees.

"What are you thinking of, then?" Bobby asked uncertainly. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know about Dean's wild plans to resurrect his lost brother.

There was no pause this time. "Deals. We'll make a deal." He sounded confident, like he knew with 100% certainty that there was a demon out there who was ready to play swapsies.

Bobby pushed himself away from the kitchen counter and he crossed the dusty, out-dated room to look out through the threadbare curtains at his junkyard. Towers of decaying machines loomed around his house, monuments to a life half-lived in normalcy. He looked sadly at them as he sighed, "Souls aren't just tuna sandwiches, Dean. You can't just swap 'em for a peanut butter one and expect things to have no consequences. You know that." He wet his lips as he struggled for words before saying quietly, "Haven't we messed with deals enough?"

Huffing a delirious laugh, Dean snorted, "Haven't we _suffered _enough?"

It was nearly a struggle for Bobby not to roll his eyes and shout at the man for being foolish. "Look, Dean, this just ain't the way to go about these things!" he insisted.

"Oh yeah? And you think I should just _leave _Sam in Hell, huh? Just let him suffer? I've been there, Bobby! I've felt how bad it is, and I'm telling you now, I am _not _letting my brother-"

"People _die_, Dean!" yelled Bobby, and his fist came to thud against his windowpane, startling a bird that had been resting on a nearby pickup truck corpse. "People die and we have to move on! Not everyone can sell their soul or get a goddamn angel to rip 'em out of Hell!" Bobby fought to keep his temper under control, grinding his teeth and glaring out at the world. He had to stay calm. _He had to stay calm._

"You want him to rot in Hell, then?" yelled Dean angrily, seemingly at the end of his rope and all out of patience.

Bobby opened his mouth but flapped it wordlessly before shutting it again. He shut his eyes angrily, lost for words, and then whispered with gruff resignation, "I want you to accept he's gone. Go back to livin' the good life with your girl and the kid."

There was an angry thump from Dean's side of the line. Probably a little venting. Probably a punch to the leather. With a quiet burning fury Dean growled, "He fought to get meback when it was me in Hell. He didn't just give up."

"This..." Bobby swallowed, still tasting whiskey, "this is different, Dean. You know it is. This is bigger than a deal. This is bigger than goddamn demons and their contracts."

"I don't see how!" Dean snapped irritably, a rushed heat burning through his words as he spat them out like gunfire. Bobby imagined him seething in his car as he drove madly away from the life he and his brother had never had a chance to live.

"I'm not going to argue with you, Dean," decided Bobby, blowing a tired breath out and raising a hand to rub at his aching forehead. "We both know you're as stubborn as a mule when it comes to things like this."

A triumphant laugh bubbled through the phone. Bobby grimaced at the hope it carried.

"Good," cheered Dean in a pale, weak imitation of the happiness he'd once possessed. "I can be at your place by early tomorrow morning if I drive past the limit and through the-"

Bobby clawed his dirty fingernails into the aged skin of his forehead and groaned in soft frustration before he grumbled to Dean, "I said I'm not about to argue, but that don't mean I'm agreeing to this, Dean."

There was a sticky silence then. It stung at Bobby's throat, making it hard for him to breathe. He wet his lips and looked out through his tattered curtains at the salvage yard. It was dead out there. Lifeless. Just unwanted cars.

Timidly, like a frightened child scorned, Dean questioned, "You're not going to help me?"

He'd been helping the Winchester family since before '91, Bobby remembered. He'd been right there at their side for years. He'd put up with John's ranting and psycho-babble; he'd struggled through the rough four months that Dean had been dead and buried, and then he'd gone and ended up in a chair because of his connection to the boys. He'd been at their side for so long. He'd been helping them for so long...

"I just... I don't think it's a good idea, Dean," Bobby croaked unevenly.

"He's my brother."

"And he died. People die. They die every day, and that's not going to change. You can't just keep doing this; you can't keep messing with life. You can't keep screwin' 'round with what's natural."

"He's in Hell, Bobby! _Sam – is – in – Hell!_" shouted Dean. He was finally reaching the level of rage that Bobby had been anticipating. The volume of his heated words forced Bobby to hold the phone an inch away from his ear so he wasn't deafened. "What part of that it natural? He was a good person! He doesn't deserve it!"

Looking sadly at the world outside his window, Bobby sighed, "Sam wanted this, Dean. It was his decision, remember? He chose this." _He chose Hell - he chose to save the world._

There was a click before Dean disconnected. A lone click. The buzz of the phone burned into Bobby's ear as he listened to the silence Dean's voice had left in its wake and then, slowly, Bobby returned the phone to its dock on the kitchen counter. He picked up the empty whiskey glass from where he'd sat it and he shuffled back into the study where he'd left the half-empty bottle.

Had he been too harsh? Maybe he should've put up with Dean's ridiculous ideas for just a little longer. The kid was grieving – he was sure to have mad ideas like that while he was grieving. It was a part of the process. Bargaining, wasn't it? Step something or rather...

Bobby's hand shook as he refilled his glass with amber whiskey, sloshing it a little over the edge of the clear glass. It made a tiny pool on the scarred wooden desktop that shimmered in the glow from the overhead lights. He eyed it sadly, suddenly depressed with everything.

Hell, if _he _was depressed, what was Dean feeling? Dean, who was now the only Winchester alive. Dean, whose father and brother were now dead. Dean, who now thought himself to be utterly alone in the world. What was he feeling? How was he coping? Not well, obviously, but the question remained. How bad was it?

"Goddamn it," Bobby hissed to himself and he tossed back the glass of whiskey, letting it burn and splash into his mouth. He swallowed it down with a gulp and wiped his mouth on his sleeve before returning the glass to sit with the drops of whiskey it had made on the desk.

As Bobby Singer clutched his coat tight around his middle, protecting himself from the chill of the outside air, he walked briskly towards his truck. In his pocket his cell phone burned impatiently, waiting for him to hurry up and call.

"Idjit going to get himself killed, out there all by himself," Bobby grumbled, getting into the truck. Inside it smelled of blood. It had been a while since he'd washed it thoroughly, and he was sure there were samples of at least a dozen different people's blood. Some of it was probably Castiel's. At least _some _part of him remained on Earth. He was no longer around to help Dean; he was back where he belonged, back with his peers.

No one to help him. Dean had no one. Bobby had shot him down - shot the kid down like a bird from the sky.

Bobby stuck the key in the ignition and started the car just as he thought: _if I don't help Dean no one will._

Even if he didn't believe in what Dean was trying to do, he still had to stand by the kid. Grief was hard, Bobby knew it, and despite what strength Dean had... he'd still need help dealing with it.

Maybe Bobby could even convince him to quit it with the whole "let's raise the dead" plan.


	3. King of the Crossroads

A/N: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! They're so awesome! Y'all are awesome, too! Thank you for inspiring me to keep writing this!

I'm gonna stick more notes at the end of this. Yeah. I'm gonna pester you even more. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA! *strokes white cat and adjusts eyepatch*

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Of course Bobby wouldn't help. Of course not. Who in their right mind would? Who was left in the world that would willingly help Dean Winchester raise his no-good brother from Hell? Not many. None, now that Bobby was out.

If Castiel was there at his side with his goofy apathetic expression... he'd have helped. Dean was sure he'd be able to convince Castiel to lend a hand – Cas seemed inclined to help Dean no matter what the issue. In the end he always came through.

Alone. Dean was all alone. No one to help, no one to care. He could fall in a ditch and die and no one would know he was gone. He'd just be another body in the morgue, another cold, blue body to be stored in a shiny metal space in a lab somewhere until it was time to bury him under stinking earth. He'd rot with JOHN DOE etched in the stone above him. Maybe Bobby would notice his absence after a few years. Maybe not.

It wasn't as though Dean had never felt lonely before. He'd felt it a lot, actually. It was a common emotion for him to feel, though he'd never dare admit it. He'd been lonely before, but this feeling – this new, burning, aching, _blistering _feeling – was entirely new. It was like the super charged version of abandonment. It was like utter hopelessness.

No one to go to, no one to call. Ellen – dead. Jo – dead. Dad – dead. Even Sam was gone. They didn't even have bodies to bury. They were just memories and names and stories.

Without Sam all the researching went to Dean. He had to sit by himself as he scanned through website after website, eyes burning as he looked for anything that could help. It was only now that he understood just how much effort Sam had gave during his hunt for anything that might've saved Dean from his own trip down under.

Everything was useless. Crossroad deals were mentioned constantly. Gates to Hell were also popular. After two hours glued to the screen of the laptop that had once been Sam's, Dean gave up on that route and instead called Crowley.

It was pitch black outside and Dean shivered as he stood in the moonlight. His breath puffed clouds of steam into the darkness and Dean pulled his jacket close to him. He was ten minutes out of town, standing in a truck-stop as he waited for Crowley to show.

He'd been waiting for half an hour. Half an hour and Crowley was yet to appear. Dean's heart – which was already weak and frail and dying – pumped wearily. Would Crowley be the next one to give up on him, or could he help? He'd helped with stopping Lucifer, after all. He'd proved he was trustworthy. He'd proved his worth and Dean liked him, which was more than he could say for the other demons he'd dealt with.

Dean turned to leave, but someone was blocking his way.

"Let me guess," sighed Crowley, grinning bright white through the dark with his hands deep in the pockets of his expensive suit pants. "This is about dear departed Sammy, isn't it?" He flicked an amused glance in Dean's direction, but it quickly sobered at the sight of Dean's returning expression.

"I have to get him out," Dean snapped, too edgy and upset to bother with pleasantries and wit. He stepped forward and pointed at the dirt under his feet as he continued fervently, "My brother is down there _suffering_ and I'm up here reading about _deals _and _gates _and _psychics_..." He waved his hand exasperatedly and threaded his fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots and blinking madly as he grew close to losing his patience.

Crowley chuckled with a mixture of fright and awe and he stopped grinning like a Cheshire cat to look curiously at Dean. He cocked his head, almost mimicking Castiel on purpose.

"I get it," he said finally, nodding once. "You're after a deal, aren't you?" He began pacing around Dean in a wide circle. Dean tried not to pull his gun out and ventilate the fucker. "You just want your Sammy back to hold and love and cherish and-"

"I _swear _to God, Crowley," snarled Dean, jabbing a finger towards the demon. "Shut up, or I'll shut you up myself."

Crowley laughed loudly, raising his head to the face the ceiling so that the sound projected around the room. "Is that any way to talk to the person you want help from?" His eyes slid back to Dean, sly and distrustful. Dean tried to remember why he'd ever thought Crowley would help him to begin with. With a vicious grin Crowley whispered, "What _would_ your mother say?"

Dean's hand trembled and his fingers itched to take his gun. "Shut up," he snapped, quiet now. A warning. "Just... just shut up."

Crowley and Dean looked at each other. Crowley continued to circle Dean, hands hidden in his pockets. His grin slowly melted into a smug smile before he sighed sadly and stopped his pacing to appeal to Dean, his face open and honest. Dean reminded himself not to believe a word the lying demon said.

"Look, here's the thing," Crowley said patiently, sadly. "I didn't want Ol' Lucifer walking and talking and smiting what I hold near and dear, and neither did you and your gang of thick-skulled buffoons. Together we solved that itty bitty problem, and now all is well in the world. I think right about here is where we say '_end of story_' and we go back to our opposite sides of the ring."

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Somewhere inside him whatever little hope that had survived quickly vanished, leaving nothing but more agony in its place. Of course. There wasn't a person alive who'd bother helping him now. He was all alone now - everyone else lay dead or uncaring.

"I mean, you didn't actually think this relationship was anything more than a one of convenience, did you?" Crowley continued, an amused smirk playing around his lips. He was pacing again, faster, and Dean stood and glared after him, growing dizzy as he turned around and around maintaining eye contact with the bastard.

"I'm not asking for a favour," Dean managed to rasp. His breathing was ragged and painful. He felt as though he'd just been sucker punched to the gut. He felt all alone. Abandoned. Fooled. "I'm offering my soul, you sadistic bastard! Isn't that what gets you guys all hot and bothered? A soul to torture?" He was shaking all over, trembling like he'd been buried in a freezing snowfall.

Crowley hummed thoughtfully, smiling faintly. He shut his eyes, humming a chuckle under his breath. Dean wanted to shoot him – wanted to make him hurt – but he knew it wouldn't do anything other than kill the poor man whose body was being controlled like a puppet. Instead he ground his teeth and he bunched his fists tightly at his sides.

"Come on!" pleaded Dean when it became too much. His throat pumped air through him, each gulp blistering with impatience. "Just... just...," he choked. Tears stung his eyes.

There was a thoughtful pause before Crowley continued. "You'd really sign up for more time in the oven, would you? Just for little baby Sammy?" he asked playfully. He was teasing, Dean knew it. He knew now – knew it with his entire being – that there was no persuading the demon to make the deal. Crowley was just playing with him, treating him like an infant, using him as entertainment.

Dean was ready to shout at him. He wanted to tell him that as soon as he memorised an exorcism ritual (and yeah, he'd have to get on that straight away now that he didn't have Sam to recite it for him) he'd suck Crowley right out of his body and send him howling back to Hell. Instead he glared murderous daggers at the imposter-human and turned away, headed towards where he'd parked the Impala. Her paint shone in the moonlight, a welcome sign of home.

"It's nothing personal, Dean," Crowley called after him. Laughter haunted his tone. Any calmness Dean had managed to scrape together suddenly vanished. "It's just, you know, I'm a demon! It's in my nature and all."

Something snapped in Dean. At that moment he could have easily broken down and sobbed, but instead he spun on his heel and bellowed, "You know what? _Fuck you!_"

He stomped back to the car with Crowley's laughter buzzing through his head like a fly that wouldn't quit. When he looked over his shoulder to where the demon ought to be standing, there was no one there. Crowley's laughter whispered through him, and Dean revved the engine into life.

He'd never trust a demon again. That was the one thing he should have learnt from his brother.

As he drove back to the motel room, heat flared through him – boiling, aching, _searing _heat – and he struggled to suck in enough air. Blinking madly he restrained his tears, feeling like such a girl as he did. Why was everything so hard? Why did his body feel so heavy? Why did he bother? Why didn't he just use his gun and join his brother? What point was there in living each day by himself? Despite those thoughts, Dean knew he'd never do it. Not yet, at least. Not until he knew there was no other choice. For now he'd just keep going.

Alone. Again. Of course.

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**A/N part 2:** I don't want to offend the Crowley fans, but my opinion is that Crowley's intentions are bad. I don't know, maybe I'm just biased because A) he's a demon and B) Ruby has left a bad taste in my mouth and we all know that saying of "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." Even so, Crowley was such an interesting character! He had better return in season 6! I loved the part where he patted his hell hound - it made me jump up and down in ecstasy. So awesome. So badass.

Still, I feel like I haven't characterised him the way he really is. Maybe I needed to stress how snazzily dressed he was, hehehehe!

**_Do you think that maybe you could review? Please? Even if it's just to say "cool" or something? I'm not lying when I say that each review I recieve is like a little ray of sunshine. It's better than Dean Tears, and we all know they go for $10,000 a drop. Thank you to those who do spend a second to type "cool", because you're making this so much fun for me. _**

**:)**


	4. Stuck in a Hole with a Bottle of Rum

A/N: So originally this was just something I wrote to cope with the loss of poor Sam and somehow it's turned into an actual story. Wowza! Here's hoping I can keep it going until I come to some kind of logical conclusion!

I've got so much love for those of you who've reviewed! Each notification in my email inbox is like a hug from Castiel. It's just so lovely. If I could I'd send you all one of my mum's choc chip cookies, complete with love hearts iced with melted chocolate on them. Yum...

Keep up the good reviews, people! They're beautiful!

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Headache raging and eyes stinging in their sockets, Dean shuffled the zombie-hangover-shuffle to the door, dodging scattered clothing and discarded pizza boxes. Someone was knocking at the door to his motel room and because they were a persistent son of a bitch and they clearly knew he was there, they had continued knocking even when Dean had attempted to ignore the dreadful sound.

"Hang on," he groaned throatily and he coughed several times to clear the cobwebs out of his chest. "I'm coming, I'm coming..."

He nudged a pile of clothes out of the way and he opened the door. He wasn't even shocked that it opened without protest – when drunk he was lazy about safety, and that included locking the door. Besides, it wasn't as though he _cared_ about being murdered in his sleep anymore.

Blinding white light burst in through the open door and for a quick second Dean was sure it was Michael, straight from the burning depths of Hell, ready to take Dean as his rightful vessel. He welcomed the thought. Now that Sam was gone and there was nothing left to lose – nothing left to fight for – the idea of being the vessel for Michael was intoxicating.

When Dean blinked and shook his head to free it of fuzziness, the white light of Michael morphed back into bright sunshine. Ordinary, safe, boring sunshine. Nothing angelic about that. Disappointment boiled low in Dean's stomach, right beside the swirly sickness he felt from all the shots he'd downed the night before. An acidic taste burned at the back of his mouth and he burped back the need to vomit.

"Are you _drunk?_" demanded a voice Dean knew and didn't care much for at that moment.

Sighing angrily Dean focused his vision on the man who stood just outside the room with his hands propped on his hips like a mother fussing over her babies. Dizzy from staring, Dean swayed on the spot and caught hold of the doorframe to stable himself.

"Jesus, Dean," mumbled Bobby – because who else would it be? No one else cared. Not even Bobby cared. He was probably only there to make sure Dean hadn't slipped in the shower and died. It was probably because Bobby felt guilty. Something like that.

"I'm fine," gurgled Dean, ignoring how much his body longed to spew vomit on to the bristly weaved welcome mat that Bobby was standing on. "Just tired, s'all."

Bobby pushed his way into the motel room, catching Dean as he did. Dean allowed Bobby to steer him towards the bathroom, gripping at the soft material of Bobby's sleeve as he was dragged along. He tried to remember how many days it had been since he'd touched another person.

"I figured this'd happen," Bobby was murmuring to himself. Dean didn't listen. He was trying to remember why he was mad at Bobby – it was for some all-important, righteous reason – but his brain didn't want to cooperate. It was instead replaying fuzzy, blurry, black moments from his sudden decline into Hell on Earth. _Tequila, vodka, whiskey and gin_. Dean could almost make it sound like a song. _These are a few of my favourite things!_

Bobby dumped Dean on the motel bed before he began collecting things off of the floor, groaning and muttering about how disgusting it all was. Dean didn't have the energy to defend himself.

Self consciously Dean tried to sit upright, but his head swirled and he collapsed back on to the bed with a bounce that made his head hurt even more. He rolled to his side and stared foggily at Bobby while he asked in a rasp, "How'd you find me?"

Eyes flicking to Dean on the bed, Bobby was silent for a long moment before replying, "Traced your cell."

Looking at his cell phone on the bedside table, Dean cursed in a breath, "Damn." He'd forgotten to take the battery out – forgetfulness was constant when you were on a liquid diet, it seemed.

With his arms laden with old clothes and rubbish, Bobby's shoulders slumped and his face soured with disappointment. "You called me a week ago. Asked for my help." He surveyed the room with his eyes, judging it, before returning his gaze to Dean. "Well, here I am." His eyes were all-seeing, all-knowing. Dean felt naked, and it sobered him significantly.

"I saw Crowley," he spat out automatically, gnawing on his lip as he stopped and paused for Bobby's reaction. Already lightness spread through his chest. He'd had no one to tell about the horrible confrontation with Crowley, and that had depressed him into a seven day worship of the Almighty Alcohol.

Bobby dropped everything he held and clothes and pizza slices and greasy cardboard tumbled to the already ruined carpet, piling up around and on his feet. His face turned an ash white colour as he stared at Dean.

"You sold it _again?_" rasped Bobby when speech returned to him. His frame trembled. "Didn't you learn anything from the first time?"

Wincing at the judgment in Bobby's voice, Dean defensively replied, "I didn't do anything! He wouldn't help me!" Dean crossed his arms over his chest and he pouted childishly. He was too hung over (and still a little drunk) and too worn out to care about looking childish. "Turns out he's just as self-centred as Ruby was."

Pink flooded back into Bobby's face and he hurried to gather the things up into his arms again. "Good," he said curtly. "I don't want any more of this soul swappin'!"

"You sold your soul!" Dean cried unjustly, pointing at Bobby and glaring. "You sold it and you ended up walking again!"

Bobby glared at Dean with thin tolerance and he ground out, "I sold it _momentarily _and that was different. That was about saving the-"

"Well _I _want to save _Sam!_" cried Dean and he forced himself to sit up. Acid and bile built in his throat, just _dying _to bring him to vomiting. "How is that any different from saving the goddamn world?" How was the world any tiny bit more important than his brother?

Though Bobby's face didn't betray any of the emotion he was feeling underneath, the way his hands trembled and his fingers dug into the bundle of clothes in his arms told a different story altogether. Dean saw it and was about to bring it into discussion when Bobby spoke again, this time with a firm, authoritative snap to his words.

"Get in the shower. You smell like rotting pumpkin."

Dean tottered and limped as he went across to the bathroom, and Bobby didn't say a word. Silence hung in the air between them and tension buzzed violently through the pungent motel room. Head ducked, Dean locked himself in the bathroom and ran the water for the shower. Holding his hand under the icy stream of slowly warming water, he thought he heard Bobby say something from the other room. Before he could think anymore of it, he was spitting vomit into the toilet and all thoughts of Bobby were replaced with the one thought of _no more alcohol_. _Ever_.

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Remember: for the twenty **seconds **it takes for you to type a review, it creates twenty **hours **of pure happiness for us who recieve them. And that's why I love you :)


	5. Your Friendly Neighbourhood Dealer

A/N: I honestly have been updating this story with a chapter a day, I believe! You guys have turned me into the Energiser Bunny! As I write this, the tally for reviews on this is 34. That's more than I ever expected. And I love you for it. Compared to other stories - the big, beautiful and beloved ones - 34 sure isn't much, but to me it truly does mean the world. THANK YOU ALL VERY MUCH! I don't think I can stress that enough, haha!

I've got a math test tomorrow (on algebra, which I'm actually semi-decent at, shockingly) so I'm going to go and revise some of the work we've covered already. I'm really praying that I pass this test, just so I can prove to my teacher that I'm not the comatose fool she thinks I am ;) Wish me luck, guys. I'm SO going to need it.

I send you all my love, and hope that you send reviews back :)

* * *

"It's your own goddamn fault, you idjit," Bobby scolded as Dean rubbed at his temples, a dry thirst burning through his entire body. "Drinking yourself into oblivion ain't gonna do a drop of good. I oughta know it, too."

Dean just grunted his agreement and went back to mashing his bacon and eggs under his fork, making messy piles of goo that he had no plans to swallow. Around him the lazy morning sounds of a diner chimed – cutlery on china; friendly chatter across tabletops; coffee machines reaching their boiling point, whistling out in alarm. Everything was familiar and it struck a painful chord within him – a chord that was getting one hell of a play in recent times.

"I didn't come all this way for you to ignore me and play with your food, Dean."

Wincing, Dean barked in reply, "Oh really? Then why'd you come?"

"Because you asked me to, you-"

"I asked for your help, and you wouldn't give it," clarified Dean, pointing his fork at the older man and wincing as too much sunlight hit him in the eyes. "You didn't think it was a good idea. That was what you said." He tried to look Bobby in the eye, perhaps to intimidate him into helping, but his skin grew hot and itchy and he had to look away before his eyes began to water. What was wrong with him?

Bobby didn't answer right away. He silently stirred a teaspoon through his cup of coffee, his eyes fixed on Dean even when Dean couldn't return the gesture. Dean looked at anything but Bobby – the table, the food, his hands, his shirt...

"Dean," Bobby said softly, his voice nearly a whisper. "I've lost people too, you know. I loved the kid as well."

"He's my brother," replied Dean without even bothering to think. His foot tapped jerkily on the sticky tile floor, bumping his knee rhythmically against the underside of the table.

A long, low sigh escaped Bobby like a cry. "I know," he murmured with resigned finality.

Pushing the chunky slush that was his breakfast around his plate, Dean concentrated forcefully upon things that didn't hurt. He thought of lifeguards. He thought about where pineapples came from. He thought of Will Smith and Tom Cruise and Dr. Sexy. He thought about the low-cut shirt on the woman sitting two booths away from them.

Bobby twisted his wrist, checking the time on his watch.

"Are you late for something?" Dean asked, cocking his head. He stopped playing with his food to focus his attention on the man opposite him. Suddenly Dean was alarmed with the idea of being left alone again. Alone with nothing but liquid happiness and pizza.

Frowning at his coffee, Bobby explained, "I've been talking to Rufus."

"About-"

"No, not about bringing back the dead," snapped Bobby fiercely. Without pausing he continued in a calmer but strained voice, "He's got a job for me lined up. It's urgent, apparently." He rolled his eyes, showing exactly how much he believed that.

"What kind of job?" asked Dean monotonously. He returned to playing with his food and his heart beat jaggedly as he considered being alone again. Hee gripped tighter to the fork in his hand, so tight that his fingers drained of blood and his skin bleached to white.

"Routine malevolent spirit, we're thinking," Bobby told him whilst cradling his coffee in one hand and sipping hesitantly at the piping hot drink. "The ghost of a little girl who drowned in the backyard pool. She's... done some nasty stuff to the new family who live there," he elaborated.

Dean nodded like he was listening and thinking and mulling it over, which was precisely what Bobby wanted to see. Really Dean was just trying to prevent a nervous breakdown.

There was long, nervous silence then. Dean knew Bobby was waiting for Dean to say something, just as he knew what Bobby was after. Bobby wanted Dean to help; wanted Dean to come with him on a hunt.

Part of Dean – the part that missed the adrenaline and the excitement of killing the bad guys and saving the pretty girls – wanted nothing more than to demand a piece of the action. The other part of him – the part that remembered and missed his brother like a lost limb – thought that hunting without Sam was almost akin to cheating on him. Cheating on Sam. Ha. Sam would've laughed at that. But Dean didn't mean it like that; it was just that it was almost as though by continuing on with his life he was forgetting about his brother. He felt like out of respect for his dead baby brother, he ought to die too – or at least stop _living_. What right did Dean have to live? What made him better than Sam? What differentiated them from one another? Why was Sam gone?

Lip trembling, Dean sucked in a shaky breath. His eyes were wet, and when he blinked the dampness away he felt more take its place.

"I want you to come with me," Bobby said, killing the silence and spitting on its corpse. His voice was gentle as he soothed, "It'll be fine, Dean. Just come with me."

Dean sniffed away any threatening tears and then shook his head fervently. He stared up at the ceiling and coughed, clearing his throat of the sobs that wanted to burst free. "I, uh... I don't think..." God, his head hurt. He was so thirsty. Where was the waitress?

Bobby sat his coffee down and wriggled forward in the booth, leaning closer to Dean across the table. He scanned the area for eavesdroppers and then said pleadingly, "It's a ghost, Dean. We both know that it's pretty much an in and out job. Hell, a toddler could do the job just as well as we could."

_Not giving in. Not caving to him. _"Bobby, I don't want to go hunting." He wet his cracked, dry lips and added, "At least, not yet. Soon. But not yet. It's too – It feels like I'm..."

Understanding filled Bobby's eyes before Dean had to look away. Why was he so girly? When had he become a blubbering mess of a man?

Somewhere inside Castiel whispered, "_You are not the burnt and broken shell of a man I believed you to be." _Would Castiel say that now, though? Now that Dean was as empty and hollow, as he was overflowing with pain? What did Castiel, the Almighty Angel of the Lord, have to say about _that?_

Anger – light and stinging – tugged at Dean's stomach as he thought of Castiel. Why wasn't Castiel helping him? That was what Dean longed to know. Was Heaven really that busy that they couldn't cope without him, or had he made the decision to turn his back on the rest of the human world, Dean as well? Strangely enough before Castiel's abrupt departure, Dean had been _certain_ they were friends. That really showed Dean how much he actually knew. Once an idiot, always an idiot.

Bobby wriggled even closer. He scratched at his stubbly beard and remarked, "I just don't want you all alone. It ain't healthy to be alone all the time."

"I wouldn't have to be alone," Dean sniped heatedly, "if you'd just agree to help me bust Sammy out." He stopped, catching his breath. "I can't waste time, Bobby. Four months was bad enough, and that was only..." He trailed away, imagining the intensity of the place where Sam was. Locked in with Lucifer himself; locked where no one could help him. No one was coming for him – not yet, at least.

He began mashing his breakfast into an even finer soup; not leaving any lumps or chunks. It disgusted him to look at, though at least it kept his hand preoccupied. His fingers ached from the death tight grip he had on his fork but to loosen it seemed unthinkable. Lots of things seemed unthinkable now.

"I'm sorry, Bobby," sighed Dean, looking up through his eyelashes at the man, "but I'm not hunting. You didn't want to be any part of my plan, and I don't want any in yours. Sorry." He shrugged jerkily. Thudding behind his eardrums raged his pulse, loud and uncontrollably scared; he imagined the gush of blood flooding through his veins with each pump of his heart, and it made him even sadder. Sam's heart wasn't pumping any longer, so why should his?

It seemed as though his drunken haze was long gone, and he was back in the state of mind that he'd tried so hard to leave behind. He was still stuck in Depression Land, where every day was a Monday.

Bobby tilted his head to the side and hummed thoughtfully. He frowned, thinking, and then said with a tone of disapproval, "Why don't we compromise, then?"

Dean's eyebrows shot to his hairline and he dropped his fork into the slush that had once been eggs and bacon. He straightened his back and stared at Bobby in surprise.

"Yeah?" he hedged.

Despite not looking one bit pleased with what he was proposing, Bobby grumbled, "You come on a hunt with me and when the ghost is gone and the case is closed, I'll help you with Sam."

_Too good to be true_, Dean thought with a shudder. That had been the problem with his deal with the devil, too. A year rather than ten to live... that was unfairness at its prime. Shame there was no such thing as a refund when it came to demons.

"How'd I know you're not going to shirk out of it?" Dean wondered, scowling suspiciously at Bobby, who looked just as dissatisfied.

Bobby stared back at Dean and said firmly, "I've known you since you stood no higher than my knee and your hair was like a mushroom, boy." He looked personally insulted; understandably so.

"Alright, alright," Dean allowed, waving a hand to settle Bobby. "Sorry. I know you wouldn't... Okay. I – I guess we could..." He didn't want to say it, so he just nodded instead.

Bobby smiled strangely. A wrinkled, crooked smile that didn't even _try_ to touch the sadness in his eyes. "Good to hear, Dean. I'm glad you're getting back in the game."

"So," Dean huffed out, ignoring Bobby and pushing his plate of muck away from him and to the centre of the table. _He was finished with it._ "Where's this ghost at?"


	6. Parental Supervision Saves Lives

A/N: This took longer than the other chapters, not because it was particularly difficult to write, nor much longer than the others, but because my life has suddenly become a lot busier. My great aunt recently died, and between cleaning out her house (and boy was she a hoarder!), consoling relatives, attending services and catching up with long-lost cousins who are creepily more attractive than I am, it's been hard to find the time to write and update.

More notes at the bottom, for those who're interested. :)

* * *

Hannah skipped out through the backdoor and sprinted across the lawn for the swimming pool. The water shimmered lazily in the sunlight and the blow up toys floated across the surface like ice-skaters on a frozen rink. She giggled with excitement, and it was only the thought of punishment that stopped her from diving right in.

"Mom!" she cried out towards the house, her hands cupped around her mouth in the hopes of loudening her voice. "Mom! Hurry_ up!_ I wanna swim!"

It was rule number one in the McKinley household. _Never swim without an adult._ Hannah knew perfectly well what punishment was received should she take a dip without supervision. Her parents wouldn't just yell; they'd take away her TV privileges and confiscate her CD player. Sometimes, when they were particularly angry, they'd smack her so that she cried.

Hannah bounced on her feet, a towel in her arms and her swimsuit just _dying _to get wet. She squinted against the sunlight as she stared at her house, searching for the shape of her mother. Why wasn't she hurrying up? Hannah had already called for her once.

Glancing over her shoulder at the luring swimming pool and then back at the house, Hannah shouted, "I'm getting in, mom!"

There was no answer. Cicada's chirped in the hot, steamy air. Sweat beaded at Hannah's forehead, wetting her fringe and slicking it to her skin.

"If you don't answer, it means yes!" she shouted again, louder this time.

No reply. Jesus, what was taking her mom so long?

Shaking her head unhappily, Hannah dropped her towel to the grass and turned and looked at the water. The blow up beach ball skimmed across the water eerily and the blow up lounge followed quickly after. Hannah frowned for a moment, though not sure why.

The air was thick and hot, and not a breath of wind was around to cool her face. She raised a hand and pushed her sweaty fringe out of her eyes, grimacing at how uncomfortable it was to live in such heat.

One last look over her shoulder at the house cemented her decision to swim. Her mom was just taking _too long._

Hannah pinched her nose shut with her fingers, gulped a breath of air, and jumped into the dark water of the pool. Immediately she was hit with the feeling of cold, prickling water. It swirled around her, easing away the heat, and she felt bright with happiness as she sprung up and her head broke through the water.

The girl gasped for air and pushed her hair out of her eyes again, heart pounding with adrenaline. Her old house didn't have a pool – the pool was the only reason she'd agreed to moving into the new house. It was big and deep and cold and it was so much fun to –

A scream tore out of Hannah's throat, but it was cut short as her head was yanked underneath the rippling water. Beneath the surface she thrashed and kicked and fought as something strong and hard gripped tight to both of her ankles, holding her where she'd die.

Bubbles of oxygen escaped her mouth as she helplessly screeched under the water and her body began to hurt with a thick, permanent ache. She wasn't used to having her eyes open under the water and they burned against the chlorine. Was this drowning? Was this her death? _Why hadn't she waited for her mom?_

She thrashed harder, fighting against death. Whatever held her tightened its grip against her ankles and she was sure the sharp claws had broken through her skin because red was tainting the water. Red, red, red. It was blood, it had to be blood, it must be hers.

Things began to slow. Her eyes no longer understood – they saw what they saw but didn't see – and her arms and legs were aching from deep within the bone. Her chest hurt the most. Somewhere inside her chest there was a burning, scratching pain.

Hannah tried to breathe.

That was when the pain exploded.

Water gushed through her lips and nose instead of the oxygen she craved, and she felt it filling her up inside, taking up places where it did not belong.

Her hands cupped around her throat uselessly and she screamed again but this time there wasn't even enough air left for bubbles.

Below her, the weights that held her down loosened.

It was as she floated to the surface, mere seconds from dying, that she saw the girl who lived at the bottom of the pool. Her white hair swirled through the water around her face and her pale, decaying skin glittered with the patterns of water as she looked up unseeingly at Hannah. Her eyes were white and lifeless, but they smiled all the same. A mean smile, a hurtful smile.

A welcoming smile.

* * *

"She – she was such a good girl," sobbed Mrs McKinley, her face in her hands. Bobby patted her shoulder comfortingly as Dean watched awkwardly from the corner of the room where he stood by the window. Outside was the swimming pool where the girl had drowned, now with a plastic cover stretched over it.

Bobby murmured gently, "We need to know... was she a confident swimmer?"

Mrs McKinley raised her head to Bobby and nodded wildly, her eyes wide and reddened from her tears. "Oh, yes!" she assured him passionately. "She loved swimming. She is – I'm sorry, she _was_ – on her school swimming team. She did all the races and relays. She... she loved it." Mrs McKinley sniffed wetly and returned to sobbing into her palms.

"And... you weren't with her when it happened?" Bobby continued carefully. He rubbed his hand over her shoulder and looked as sympathetic as Dean had ever seen him.

"I was trying to find the sunscreen," wept the woman. "She was barely alone for one minute, I don't know... I don't know how she..." Her wrenching sobs returned even louder now.

Dean watched uselessly. He'd never been good at comforting the family – that was usually Sam's job, what with his soft girly eyes and everything. Dean was the one who got to kick down doors and rescue the damsel in distress just in time; he tried not to get involved with the mourning family. That just... It didn't work with him.

Now, though... now it was one hundred times harder, and he wasn't even in direct contact with the poor woman. No... Dean was the chicken wimp who was pressed against the wall as he tried to escape the emotions that swirled sickeningly around the living room. Dean was barely able to look at the grieving mother, her hair wild with messy curls and her body clad in black.

"Was your husband at home when the accident occurred?" Bobby asked her hesitantly. He was trying to stay tactful whilst still getting information. Dena had never been able to do that right.

Sniffing back tears and peeping over her fingers, the woman whispered, "He was at work. I was supposed to watch her."

"And she was an only child?"

Her head bobbed. Her dark green eyes – tainted with veins – glistened with more tears, and a drop rolled free and down her smooth, flushed cheek. "She was my one and only," she whispered.

Dean's chest was tight. He licked his lips and felt the sting as saliva met open cracks in the soft flesh. Wincing, he caught Bobby's attention.

"I'm going to go and inspect the pool," Dean announced, and he brushed his hands over the front of his suit nervously. Mrs McKinley nodded tearfully and went back to crying.

The house was large and mostly floored with wood. Somehow that made it homey, in Dean's mind. Homey and sweet and warm. His shoes clapped against the floorboards as he walked, and he pushed his hands into the pockets of his pants and tried to focus on the job rather than the things around him that would only make him sadder.

They were posing as government officials garnering information on whether or not the swimming pool was unsafe. Dean felt dreadful – the girl had barely been buried longer than a day, and they were already scrounging for facts like starved animals tearing at a discarded carcass.

It was swelteringly hot outside. There was the loud chirp of cicadas singing into the boiling air and the faint trickle of a breeze did nothing but push more hot oxygen into Dean's face. He regretted wearing a suit almost continuously. Too hot. Too hot. _Too hot._

Cursing the weather and the resulting perspiration that plagued him, Dean searched through his pockets for the EMF detector that he'd once made himself. It was old and dirty and kind of ruined, but it did the job. It also carried memories, and as if he was going to throw that away.

EMF in hand, Dean pointed it towards the swimming pool. He started in shock when he saw a girl before him. A girl, small and white-blonde, stood on the end of the diving board, her arms behind her back. She wore a white lacy dress; something from an older time. Her eyes were on him but her lips moved without words – like she was whispering to herself. She looked barely older than eight or nine, and Dean felt a pit of nerves bounce into his stomach at the sight of her.

"Who are you?" Dean asked carefully. He lowered the EMF, which had begun to shriek, and he stared curiously at her. "Do you live here?" he asked even though he knew she didn't – or, more correctly, _hadn't _for a long time.

She shook her head with a deliberate slowness that raised the hairs all over Dean's body. "No," she answered, her voice smooth, soft and quiet. "I live down there." She pointed a finger at the swimming pool. Her eyes glittered and her hair fluttered in the gentle, almost nonexistent breeze.

Dean's heart beat unevenly with joint fear and excitement. He'd forgotten the feeling that accompanied the rush of doing something life-threatening. He'd forgotten how glorious it was to be up against something that could end his life like it was nothing whatsoever, like he was merely a bug on the windshield.

"What's your name?" he questioned her, wetting his cracked lips yet again and fumbling to return the EMF to his pocket. It was making a racket, so he switched it off.

With her hands still behind her back, she began to rock on her heels. The diving board bounced under her shifting weight and Dean stepped closer.

"My mother calls me Delilah," she said evenly. She stopped bouncing to stare quizzically at Dean before asking, "Have you seen my mother?"

Dean looked over his shoulder at the house, at the window through which Bobby was consoling the distraught Mrs McKinley. He looked back to Delilah and shook his head. "No," he told her. "I haven't."

She huffed a disappointed sigh and resumed her bouncing. Dean wondered if she was going to eventually dive.

"Have you seen a little girl?" Dean quickly asked her, determined to get some answers. "Her name is Hannah."

Delilah's snow-white hair flickered through the breeze as a secret smile curved her lips. Her eyes shone with a gruesome delight and then she told him as sweetly as ever, "She's my new friend."

Before Dean could ask anything else, Delilah raised her arms above her head and launched herself off of the diving board in a perfect dive. The lacy white dress and her light blonde hair streamed behind her like a beautiful streak of flame after a shooting star. The plastic covering over the pool did nothing to hinder her – she passed straight through it and left neither trace nor splash.

Dean stared after her in mild shock before he went over to the diving board, already with the EMF detector in his hand. Aiming it at where Delilah had stood, the EMF beeped madly.

"Dean?" Bobby called over from the back door. "You ready to leave?"

"Uh, yeah." Dean turned off and put away the EMF detector and with one last look at the pool and the diving board, he left.

"Thank you for talking with me, Mr Allen," Mrs McKinley said to Bobby as they stood by the Impala in her driveway. "You've really helped me." Her eyes were still blood shot and her cheeks were stained with long streaks of tears.

"That's quite alright, Mrs McKinley," Bobby replied, taking her hand and squeezing it in a fatherly way. "I'm happy to be of help. We'll be sure to get back to you soon."

As they drove away, headed for the motel, Bobby grunted, "Poor woman." The way he said it... it was almost as if he was trying to tell Dean something. "I'm glad I could help her come to terms with everything. She's heartbroken."

Dean adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and looked out at the road. "Poor Hannah," he murmured. "She's dead."

That was worse.

* * *

**A/N: **Bobby's alias Mr Allen is a reference to the drummer of Def Leppard. If you don't already know, he's only got one arm. One arm, and is one of the best drummers ever. It's magnificent. One of Def Leppard's songs "Rock of Ages" was in the season finale – it played as Dean drove up to the big fight. I was ticked off that they cut the song where they did. They could of at least let a little of the chorus in, right?

I know the whole drowned kid haunting a pool/lake/river/bathtub has been done to death, but I've always had a thing about them. I think Dead in the Water was one of the best season 1 episodes (not just because the image of Peter swimming up to the surface haunts my every minute swimming) and this is kind of, I don't know... my homage to that? I don't know! Stick with me, mmm'kay?

**Reviews would seriously make me happy right now. I feel like everyone's suddenly dying... first Sam Winchester, than my beloved Aunt, then Jack on LOST. :'( R.I.P to all of them. **

**Love ya, Auntie Joanie. xo**


	7. A World Apart, But Still Together

Bobby had fallen asleep with a bottle of beer tight in his calloused hand. He'd said earlier in the night, before he'd drank himself into a groggy snooze, that they'd go back to the McKinley house in the morning. "_Don't you go doing anything on your own"_, he'd told Dean, a warning in his aged eyes.

Dean had tried to sleep. He had. Truly. It was just that when he lay there, eyes fixated on the water stained ceiling, Bobby's snores reverberating through the tiny motel room... it was hard not to think. It was fucking impossible. How was he supposed to sleep when somewhere his brother was screaming in pain? Dean knew what Hell felt like – he knew better than anyone else – and that was why sleeping was an insult to Sam. He was wasting time. Wasting time hunting down a ghost; wasting time sleeping; wasting goddamn precious time.

So he didn't sleep, and he didn't listen to what Bobby had told him. Instead he went to the McKinley house, jumped their fence and approached the pool. It's surface rippled despite the still air, and his whole body erupted in goosebumps as he stood there facing the scene of the crime; the place where lives had been lost again and again. The girl flickered into sight. Her eyes shone in the dark, her hair fluttered with no breeze.

She smiled.

* * *

The first thing Dean Winchester saw when he opened his eyes was a pair of blue ones, narrowed in concern and mild annoyance. Dean's gaze broadened and he recognised who the blue eyes belonged to. He parted his lips to voice his surprise, but instead of words it was water that spilled out. So much water that it choked him, and he struggled to sit upright so that he could breathe. Hands helped him to sit, and then patted his back firmly, encouraging the coughs of water that continued to burst out of Dean.

"Wh-what happened?" croaked Dean when speaking became possible again. His throat burned and his lips were pruned. He ran his tongue over them, feeling the splits in the soft flesh. They stung with his saliva. "Why'm I wet?" He raised his arms and shook them a little, shaking as much water out of his sleeves as he could. Dean looked up imploringly and added, "Why are you here?"

Castiel stared blankly at Dean as he replied, "You were deprived of oxygen, I came to assist you." He glanced over at the pool and Dean followed his gaze, frowning with confusion. The water in the pool was a dark red in the darker night. He added thoughtfully, "You look of poor health, Dean."

"I didn't need any assisting, Cas," Dean argued pointlessly, ignoring the comment about his health, and the nickname rolled off his tongue like Castiel had never left, like he'd been there the whole time. "I need to get this job over and done with so that I can get back to work on helping my brother." He attempted to stand, but decided against it when his head throbbed and his limbs quivered unsteadily.

He tilted his head and frowned. "Drowning won't help Sam. Drowning will not help anyone."

"And wasting time on a D-list ghost _will?_" scoffed Dean, and he raised a drenched hand to wipe the drops of water away from his face. He tried to remember what had happened before waking up to Castiel's hovering face. "What happened to me? Why was I in the pool?"

Castiel's expression of confusion remained as he answered, "You attempted to destroy the ghost that haunts this swimming pool yourself, and it overpowered you. I arrived in time to prevent your death." He stared apathetically at the sky, seeing Heaven and the life he was now living. "It is a good thing that I saw you, otherwise you would have died."

It wasn't surprising that Dean didn't feel distressed at the idea of dying, but he didn't chose to dwell on it. His body ached with fatigue, but he forced himself to stand. He swayed sickly, unstable on his feet, and he frowned through the darkness at the reddened water of the swimming pool. "What's with the water, then? I'm not bleeding am I?" He quickly patted a hand down his torso and thighs, checking for any painful wounds he'd overlooked.

"No," replied Castiel in his hoarse voice, the voice that echoed through Dean like a reminder of the past. Dean stopped searching for a bleeding injury and returned to standing stock-straight, swaying gently as he regained his strength. "That's how the spirit chose to leave its mark upon the world."

"So I got the bitch?" Dean felt better at that. It meant he'd upheld his part of the deal – now he and Bobby could get to work with freeing Sam. He felt excitement building in his chest, and a grin bubbled at his chapped lips.

"No," answered Castiel, effectively shooting Dean's happiness in the head. "I am responsible for its demise."

"But we can lie about that, right? Bobby doesn't need to know." He paused. "Wait, who cares who killed her? The job's done either way, and he promised me that we'd work on Sam once this job was over." He grinned at Castiel – grinned for the first time in a lifetime – and said gratefully, "Thanks, Cas."

Castiel merely nodded, wearing one of his awkward half-smiles on his pale lips.

That was when Dean had the best idea he had ever had. Slowly he said, "Cas, you're an angel."

Blinking with wonder, Castiel agreed with mild worry, "I am an Angel of the Lord, yes."

"You brought Bobby back from the dead. You saved me. Hell, I've even got the god-damn scar to prove it." He stepped closer to the angel, his clothes weighing him down due to the amount of water they held. His shoes were still on his feet, soaking with bloodied water. "You can bring Sam back, too!"

Castiel stared at him, light eyes filled with nothing and everything all at once. He finally frowned with confusion and grumbled, "Sam Winchester was in the deepest prison of Hell. No angel could free a man from that fate. Not even myself."

"But you managed to-" Dean stopped. He stared at the angel. He blinked numbly and his fingers twitched jerkily, little signs of a breakdown approaching. He opened his mouth, stunned, and managed to hiss, "Did you just say '_was?'_"

"Were you not aware that Sam Winchester is no longer in the confines of Hell?" asked Castiel, a little shocked. His cheeks coloured lightly, embarrassed. "I believed that your brother would contact you immediately upon his release. I was mistaken. I am sorry." He bowed his head in a nod, then returned to staring at Dean, searching for a reaction that was boiling hurriedly in Dean's stomach.

Words burned in Dean's mouth and his fingers twitched and bunched into fists. He forced his lips and teeth to stop grinding and he sucked down a deep breath. However he'd never been one for relaxation methods, and it certainly was not working now.

"What the _fuck?_" shouted Dean, and his voice echoed loudly around the silent neighbourhood. "He's _out?_" Dean's pulse raged behind his ears, thudding violently and collapsing his throat so that breathing became a nearly impossible task. He rasped as he tried for oxygen.

He imagined his brother, free from torture and punishment, living without Dean. Living alone, continuing the hunt, living the life they'd always shared. He then imagined his own self. Alone, desperate, searching.

_Desperate._

The dark morning sky wavered before Dean's eyes and he covered his face with his wet, cold hands. His breath puffed out of him frantically and from somewhere in front of him he could hear Castiel saying his name. His mind ticked wildly, shooting from one thing to the next.

Sam was out of Hell.

Sam was alive.

Sam hadn't bothered to contact him.

Sam didn't want him?

"Hey!" shouted a new voice, a male voice. He was angry and alarmed. "What are you doing in my yard?"

Dean managed to peer through his fingers at the man just before Castiel reached out and wrapped his hand around Dean's forearm and the world went black. The darkness was quickly replaced with the motel room and Dean found himself falling to his knees, face still held in his hands. Bobby jerked awake from where he slept in a suspiciously stained armchair. His eyes were wide and sleep-blinded for a moment before they cleared; then he stared with shock at the angel who stood beside Dean.

"What the hell is going on here?" he demanded sleepily. "I thought this one-" he nodded pointedly at Castiel "-went back to Heaven?"

Dean sobbed a breath of painful air out of his scratched throat and explained, "Sam's out."

That woke Bobby up 100%. He stood, knocking his empty beer bottle to the ground and nearly smashing it. He glared at Castiel first, then down at Dean. "What did you do?" he seethed. The string of words took Dean back in time, back to when he sold his soul for Sam and Bobby had shouted at him in the salvage yard; called him out on things.

"Neither Dean nor I did anything to release Sam," Castiel said calmly, voice gravelly and somewhat like a rock that Dean clung to so that he wasn't washed away. "It was the work of a higher power."

"God?" Bobby guessed, hands propped on his hips. "God brought Sam back?"

"It is not known who resurrected Sam Winchester, but it is someone of great power," Castiel told them both, though Dean was long past listening. Words wrapped around him, words from both Castiel and Bobby, and he let them wash through his brain without leaving knowledge or comprehension in their wake.

His brother was out of Hell.

And he hadn't bothered to call.

* * *

A gurgle of horrified agony burst through his lips as he peeled back the denim of his jeans that was stuck to the pus oozing, blood spurting wound that wrapped around his left ankle. It was getting infected; he knew that much, at least. Usually there'd be someone with him to call him a wimp, to sock him a punch to the shoulder, to ruffle his hair. Someone to hand him the whiskey and to tell him in a calm, easy voice, "It'll be fine, Sam. We'll fix you up."

Not now.

Blind with pain, he managed to grumble through grinding teeth, "He's happy now. Th-that's what m-matters." He broke off with a strangled groan that carried the taste of blood. Had he bitten himself? Or was this another of Hell's tricks? A drop escaped his lips and slid down his chin, making it half-way down his throat before he caught it with his fingertip. It glistened white and red under the motel light, and he stared intently at it for a long while before wiping it on the already ruined material of his jeans.

Visible against the contrasting brown bedspread, steam rose from the rank injury, a pungent odour spiralling upwards to his nostrils. He gagged and felt the acidic splash of vomit in his mouth, but managed to miraculously swallow it back. Left dizzy and shaking, he abandoned the job at hand and instead lay back on the motel bed, eyes wide on the ceiling. He saw bright, colourful patches dance before his very eyes. They swirled and expanded, leaving him even dizzier. He shut his eyes for a moment as he waited for the pain to subside. When he finally opened them again, the room and the pain were both the same as before. Everything still sucked.

Throbbing constantly, his ankle burned. He blinked back tears. How had his brother managed the pain? How had he coped? Hadn't he gone mad with the pure torture of it?

_'C'mon, wimp. Don't baby out on me now.'_

Blinking back tears of pain and sadness, he sat up again and continued dressing the mark that Hell had left upon him. He focused on his brother. His brother had suffered worse. A lifetime of being second; a lifetime spent under merciless torture. _He did it. He did it. He managed. He did it. _He repeated his inward mantra constantly, hoping it might sink into his brain and take some kind of effect upon him.

This time, the vomit hit the carpet.

**

* * *

**

A/N: Okay, can I just get something out of the way before I head into the whole "review review review" thing? I didn't copy and paste this part or any other part of this story. I'm sorry if you thought I did, but I didn't. I wouldn't do that to someone - how can anyone steal something that's taken time, effort and creativity? It's wrong. And I would _never_. It hurts, actually, that you thought I did.

Sorry to everyone reading who are thinking "WTF?" I'm trying not to be a whiny bitch here.

Reviews would be nice right about now. Very nice. Thank you to everyone who reviews, alerts and favourites what I write. It means the absolute world.

(Also, I already posted this chapter but then had to delete it due to a massive screw up that I blame entirely on my internet connection. My connection sucks. Sorry if I inconvenienced anyone.)


	8. Hate Leaves Ugly Scars

**A/N: **Okay, sorry if this took a while. I've been distracted by the glory of literature, I'm afraid :D The best thing about holidays is that it gives me time to read!

Also, the title of this chapter is taken from a quote I've always loved: "Hate leaves ugly scars, love leaves beautiful ones." Just so you know :)

* * *

It was on the corner of Howser and Cox that he fell.

People crowded around him, worried, shouting for an ambulance and exclaiming that someone was sick, someone needed help. He was still semi-conscious, his eyes hovering halfway between opened and closed. His hair was slick to his forehead from a sheen of cold perspiration and his body was numb and heavy. Wait – no – not numb. His ankle – his ankle was where the -

"Ankle," he whimpered, desperately trying to communicate what was wrong. It burned madly, throbbing, the only feeling amongst the dead weight of his body. "Lucifer... he... he _grabbed _me..." His voice curled up, empty, wasted.

He heard the sirens through the fog in his head. He heard someone say, "He was talking gibberish. Kept muttering about someone called Dean and someone called Lucifer. There's something wrong with his ankle... Maybe drugs in his system... dehydrated... malnourished..."

When someone shone a bright light in his eyes and boomed, "What's your name?" it was impossible not to answer.

"Sam," he rasped, throat burning. His eyes were already shut again. Sirens were gone now and he tried to remember how long the world had been quiet for. Had he passed out? How long had he been on the floor for? Time was sticky and stretchy and unreliable. He blinked groggily, eyelids heavy and tired.

"Sam? _Sam! _What's your last name? Can you tell us?" pressed the person. A woman? A man? Their voice was loud but androgynous – or perhaps that was just Sam, washed away with the numbness that was overwhelming in its potency.

"You need to... call my – my brother..." he stammered, losing grip. No aliases were at hand. No IDs. No point in lying if he was just going to die again, anyway. If he told the truth, at least he'd be burried under the right name. He managed to gurgle, "Dean." He stopped and swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth, then continued with, "Dean Winchester. I'm... a Winchester."

He didn't stay awake long enough to know what happened next, but it was with the curtain call of unconsciousness that he fleetingly thought, _please don't let me dream._

* * *

Sam was on the ground when he woke up and the first thing he noticed – other than the dark – was the aching that was deep within his bones, almost radiating from the marrow. He felt worn out; it was the feeling he got after a long day of physical exertion only far, far worse. This fatigue not only made it hard for him to lift his head, but hard for him to work his lungs and tongue and eyes. He was running on empty. He was hollow. Worn out. _Used up._

People were screaming, too, but that wasn't important. Sam had known before jumping that there would be screams. Sometimes his brother had muttered in his sleep, talked of screaming and how it was so loud, how they all cried, how the screams just didn't stop... There were two raised voices amongst the screaming background that did matter, though. Two enraged voices. Sam couldn't understand what they said or where their voices were coming from, but he knew that these were the voices of two _aboslutely furious _fallen angels.

He grunted as he forced himself to crawl to all fours, dragging his weary body forward, seeking help through the pitch black of his surroundings. Hell wasn't hot. No flames. No rivers of lava. No flayed skin. It was just... It was just dark and cold and awful. Beneath his palms as he crawled he felt chilled gravel and stones and it was as if he were crawling through a cave rather than Hell. The screams. It was the screams that wouldn't let him forget where he was. _They never stopped_.

A gasp burst out of him when his hand touched something human. Another hand, he knew for certain. Motionless fingers lay outstretched against the gravel flooring and Sam shakily examined the hand blindly, using nothing but his fingertips to decipher what was before him. There was wetness, too. A sticky, mildly warm wetness that ran in unmoving rivulets over the wrist of the chilled arm. Sam knew from experience that it was blood. Blood on the wrist of a dead man. A dead brother.

"Adam," he whispered, lip trembling. He shook the hand firmly, uselessly trying to rouse him from death. "Adam?" He didn't understand – shouldn't Adam's soul still be with them, trapped in the confines of Hell? What use was a corpse in Hell? How had he died, and Sam lived?

He was about to try to feel his way to Adam's head when the shouting voices became clearer, no longer speaking a language that didn't register with Sam's brain. Now he understood them. He took his trembling, aching, tired hands away from Adam and listened instead.

"I have been imprisoned in this cage longer than I've known different!" raged a voice Sam knew must be Lucifer's. It didn't sound entirely human in Hell; probably because he was no longer inside a vessel. "I am _due_ for release!"

"You've not learned from your mistakes, brother!" argued the voice of Michael, the words ringing through the coldness with a sharp, clear sound that nothing else in Hell had. It almost cut through the screams like a blade. There was a goodness to it that Lucifer's voice – and the screaming souls' – lacked. "You have been sentenced to a life in Hell! There is no chance of release for a deprived being like you."

Suddenly the world was plunged into blinding white light that burned at Sam's eyes and forced him to clench them shut and cover them with his hands, all the while constantly grimacing and groaning at the pain of it all. A high, piercing wail accompanied the glow, and it easily overshadowed all the screams of the tortured souls in Hell and managed to make the gravel beneath Sam shake and quiver like an earthquake was rocking the core of the Earth.

A screech like nothing Sam had ever heard blistered through Lucifer in the one word of: "_Father!_"

The single, unending piercing sound that was paired with the white light grew higher, and it pushed against Sam's eardrums and stung bizarrely at his teeth, rattling them almost. Sam yelled pointlessly, praying that perhaps his vocalisation of agony would stop the merciless bastard that was blinding and deafening him with extremities of sound and light. It didn't work – the piercing white screech grew even louder, even sharper.

"_Why not me?_" screamed Lucifer, his voice so horrifyingly loud and violent that Sam was glad he couldn't see his expression. "_I was your favourite! Your most loyal! I worshipped you – I loved you! I love you, Father!" _

"Father!" cried Michael, grateful, relieved, happy.

"_He's a sack of skin and bones! A pile of flesh and sin!_" screeched the Devil, the mere altitude of his tone so unearthly that Sam knew for certain that this was Hell, that this was torture, that this was his fate for all eternity. "_He's nothing to you! Just another creature to live and breathe and spoil everything it touches before it perishes! Choose me! _Pick me!_ I'm your _son_!" _

Realisation came to Sam slowly, trickling through his mind and sticking with hot truthfulness. Too much pain wracked his body for it to arrive any quicker, but once it hit him he was shocked breathless. _Was this God, come to rescue him?_

"_I won't let you!_" Lucifer roared over the building scream of sound. "_If you won't take me, you won't take him either!" _

Sam had his hands over his eyes and he was on his knees when something curled around his ankle, touching his skin underneath the hem of his jeans, his ankle. _Fingers_, he thought randomly, stupidly, stunned by what was occurring around him. Lucifer sobbed from behind him, the sound like pure desperation.

It took a brief second for the pain to hit him, but it was the longest second of his life.

Once it hit him – seared him, _ruined him –_ he remembered nothing else. The light enveloped him and his body reached empty_._

Somewhere through the haze Sam fell into, Lucifer tightened his hold and tugged, trying to keep Sam there. "He's_ mine._"

* * *

Sam's eyes jolted open and his heart raced wildly in his chest, propelling fear through his veins.

"He's got me," he cried with alarm, thrashing his arms against the confining blankets that were wrapped over him. The room was white – white light, white light – and there were voices murmuring by him – they never stop, they keep screaming – and from utter terror he raised the volume of his voice and screeched into the hospital, "_He's got me he's got me he's got me he's got me_ –"

They had to put him out with sedatives.

* * *

**Thank you to those glorious angels who review, favourite or recieve alerts for this story! You're all such champions, I love you so.**

**Review, review, review! You know you wanna ;)**


	9. Found

**A/N: **In Dream A Little Dream Of Me, Bobby is in Pittsburgh when Dean gets the call saying he's sick, so that's the reasoning behind why I chose Pittsburgh for Sam. I know absolutely nothing about where any of the states/cities/towns are in the US, so you're gonna have to blindly ignore any massive errors I make regarding that. Maybe there's not even a hospital there! *rushes to google*

Mind you, I can't even remember the names of the towns on either side of my own, and our local hospital won't even deliver babies, because, y'know, babies aren't important or anything...

* * *

When Dean Winchester's cellphone rang, the screen flashing an unknown number, he sighed bitterly and took the phone outside, not looking at either the angel nor the ex-paraplegic as he went. The door slammed loudly after him, rattling the windows and knocking a little cardboard advertisement for Casa Erotica from its place on top of the cheap TV set in the corner of the room. It lay naked-girl-side-down on the gross green carpet.

"Guess he's a little pissed," Bobby grumbled quietly and he raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. "Can't blame him," he theorised with a helpless shrug, then clapped his hands on his thighs and huffed a sad breath of air. "I'd be upset too, if my brother didn't remember to call after escaping from Hell."

Not acknowledging that Bobby had spoken, Castiel wandered to the window and silently pulled the floral curtain to one side so that he could see out. A pink neon glow from the sign outside that beamed '_MOTEL_' shone through the glass and turned Castiel's trench-coat a salmon pink and illuminated the colour of his skin. Bobby watched him from where he sat on the end of one of the beds, fiddling with his fingers and digging dirt out from underneath his fingernails.

"He hasn't coped well without his brother, I see," Castiel noted unhappily. "I wondered if this would happen. It seemed likely. The times I chose to check on him, he always appeared depressed or angry." He paused, taking a deep breath. "I see that... it's different to witness it in person."

"He's got determination," murmured Bobby. "That's both a gift and a curse when it comes to the Winchester's." He paused. "Mostly a curse."

The angel nodded and then moments later he stepped back from the window and said warningly, "The phone call has upset him."

Before Bobby had time to say anything the door reopened and Dean threw himself inside, not even bothering to shut the door behind him. Cold air seeped in, yet no one dared block it out. All eyes were glued on Dean.

"I gotta go," he breathed, hurrying to where he'd left his duffel and his weapons. He began shoving things into the bag – his shaving kit, his phone, his jacket... Had he forgotten anything else? He straightened his back and scanned the room, searching, and then dashed into the bathroom to search there as well.

"Calm down, son," urged Bobby. He came to stand beside Castiel and when Dean glanced over his shoulder at them through the bathroom door, they looked pale and confused.

"I've got to get to Pittsburgh," he called back to them as he gathered the bottles of pills that sat by the sink. Pain killers, mostly. Some were sleeping pills. It didn't matter right then and there. "I just got a call from some hospital in Pittsburgh."

"P-Pittsburgh?" questioned Bobby, extremely confused and not trying to hide the fact. Castiel even tilted his head, just like the good old days. His eyes narrowed as he frowned.

Dean managed a worried, frantic smile as he dashed past them to pack the pills away. The rattled like maracas as he carried them. "I'm Sam's emergency contact," he elaborated, then hastily added, "though I'm down as Ron Wild in the forms, because, y'know, technically I'm _dead_ or – or _wanted _or something..." He shook his head as he tried to clear away the frantic shock that was stuttering his speech. "Anyway, point is, I gotta haul ass."

"Wait, wait, wait," cried Bobby, waving his hands about and frowning. Dean stood still and stared at the older man, impatiently waiting for Bobby to spit out whatever he was trying to say. "What is going on?" Bobby asked eventually, and Dean groaned and returned to action.

"Sam is in hospital?" Castiel asked, wide-eyed. Then, more excitedly, "We know his whereabouts?"

"Pittsburgh!" Dean replied, and his lips twisted into a proper, honest smile as he forced a jacket into his duffel, probably ripping the fabric. "He's in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania!"

Bobby grabbed his own duffel and tugged his hat firmly on to his head. "What're we waiting for, then? Let's hit the road."

* * *

The excitement had lasted for nearly an hour before it began to wane, and now, three hours into the trip, Dean was growing tired and bored. He'd had a big night. Breaking and entering, fighting a pre-pubescent ghost, losing to a pre-pubescent ghost, being saved by an angel, learning that his brother was alive, learning that his brother was hospitalised... It was a plateful, all right.

He was following Bobby's car – _following_, because Bobby didn't trust him enough to lead at a responsible, safe speed – and through the dark of the night it was only what his headlights shone upon that he could see. His stereo churned out music, grainy and rough as he liked it, and he tapped the steering wheel to the beat. AC/DC had never sounded so sweet. The night had never looked brighter.

"The cemetery in Lawrence has been disturbed," announced Castiel and Dean jumped in his seat and hit his head on the ceiling of the car, no doubt bringing out a bump the size of a baseball on his scalp.

"I see you haven't gotten any better at entrances since you've been away," Dean mumbled, reaching out and turning the volume down so speaking was possible. 'Thunderstruck' continued at a lower level, quiet background music to their conversation.

Castiel shrugged. "Heaven requires no call before arrival."

"Oh yeah? Well I've got news for you, Dorothy -"

"As I was saying," Castiel continued, raising his voice and ignoring Dean with the trace of a smirk on his lips, "Stull Cemetery in Lawrence has been disturbed. It is clear that some kind of angelic presence has been there. Or something that resembles the work of angels."

"Angelic?" Dean repeated, testing the theory. "So it's just another grunt angel that's saved the day, huh?" Dean guessed, and he was already picturing a second Castiel who would make deadpan comments and not understand Dean's absolutely hilarious jokes.

Castiel paused, thinking. "It might be," he allowed, a little unsure.

Dean looked contemplatively out of the window, watching the dark scenery flash past in blinding blurs. He bit his lip. "Or maybe God?" he suggested hesitantly, not sure if God was still an option. Hadn't he been kind of uninterested about the apocalypse? "I mean, God saved you, so why not Sam? Aside from the whole, y'know, ex-blood addict reason." He laughed awkwardly and adjusted his grip on the wheel.

Castiel bowed his head in a nod. "Yes, for all we know God may have been Sam's saviour."

Dean couldn't help noticing that Castiel sounded less than happy about that, but when he turned his head to ask him a question, Castiel had left and Dean was driving alone.

Dean smirked to himself and didn't even feel guilty about it. "Freaking angels."

* * *

"Mr Wild?" the woman at the hospital desk asked Dean while her eyes flickered uncertainly at Bobby and Castiel who flanked him at either side. "Sam's cousin?"

"Yes, that's me," Dean quickly said energetically – despite how tired and sleep deprived he was – with his fingers gripping tightly to the edge of the clean, sharp counter that separated them from her. "Is Sam okay?"

"He's going to be fine," she assured him with a nod and a smile, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder and offering a sparkly-eyed wink that said more than words could. Under regular circumstances, Dean would have responded with his own eye-flirting, but today he couldn't care less about women.

"Which room?" Bobby asked gruffly, interrupting her.

Almost as if she'd forgotten Bobby and Castiel were there, she gasped and bit her lip before she looked down at her computer screen and read, "Uh, Mr Winchester is staying in room 176, which is on floor 5."

"176, floor 5," Castiel repeated in a whisper, possibly trying to memorise it.

"Um, y-yeah," she stuttered, and she chewed nervously at the cuticle of her pinky finger.

Dean awkwardly smiled at her before saying as gratefully as he could, "Thanks... uh" - he squinted at her name tag, which was embellished with little hand-drawn flowers - "Diane."

She grinned broadly, showing white teeth that were slightly plum coloured from her lipstick. Dean wondered if her pinky finger was just as plum stained. Probably.

"Women confuse me," Castiel said as they searched out the elevator. People bustled around them, some patients, some family, some staff. A girl staggered past them with a cast running all the way up her leg and Castiel stared after her, eyes shocked and round as golf balls.

"They confuse us all," Bobby sympathised with a laugh, and he clapped a hand on Castiel's shoulder. Somehow even though they were on their way to see Sam in hospital, the feeling between them all was joyous.

Better hospital than Hell, right?

There were two other people in the elevator as they went up to floor 5, and the ride was silent apart from the crackling, static speckled music that chimed from hidden speakers. The walls were a reflective silver, and Dean couldn't help but stare at his mirrored-self and wonder how he'd let himself get to this stage. His hair was greasy and his stubble was reaching a length that was unruly and un-Dean. He ended up grinning because despite his shabby appearance, he'd still managed to get the woman at the desk to flirt with him. If that wasn't skill, what was?

Dean marched ahead of Castiel and Bobby when the doors clanked open and the hallway stretched out before them, white and stark and smelling of chemicals. The place reminded Dean of bad memories – though really, who had _good _memories of hospitals?

"I hate hospitals," Bobby murmured from behind him, almost a mind reader.

"I also hate them," agreed Castiel, and Dean offered a weak, "Amen, brothers."

Each room they passed, Dean checked the number on the door and choked with terror. Was his brother going to be cut up and bloody? No one had really told him, and he'd continuously forgotten to ask – it just hadn't struck him as the right question at the times that he'd had the opportunity to ask. Why was Sam in hospital to begin with? The call he'd received... the woman had said something about an infection, about fatigue...

"We have reached the 170s," Castiel announced. His voice held no nerves. He didn't feel the trepidation that Dean did.

Dean swallowed thickly and hurried his steps.

And then there it was. The door.

"Room 176," sighed either Bobby or Castiel. Dean didn't know who was who, what was what, which was which.

Dean wasted no time. He stretched out a hand and yanked the door wide, stepping through and standing there, soaking in the sight.

The first thing he noticed was the whiteness of it all. White tile floors, white walls, white ceiling. The bed was dressed in white sheets and blankets, and the skin of the man lying in it was pure snowy white, flawed only by the dark purple shadows around his eyes and a long graze that ran over his cheek. His hair was the same – no longer, no shorter, still Sam – and his body was still as gargantuan sized as ever. It was his brother, and he wasn't in Hell any more.

"Damn," Bobby breathed, his words blowing hot over the back of Dean's icy neck. "Kid looks like a ghost."

Moving away from Bobby and Castiel, Dean strode across to his brother in three large steps and was quick to press his fingers to the underside of Sam's wrist, right where the pulse was easy to feel. It beat slow and steady beneath Dean's forceful fingers, and a relieved gust of aged air eased out of Dean's lungs. He'd been holding it for far too long.

"He's alive," Dean whispered, then collapsed leglessly into a chair Bobby had dragged closer for him. He kept his fingers on Sam's pulse. He began to count each subtle beat.

_One... two... three... four..._

"Says here it's his ankle that's the problem," Bobby remarked seconds-minutes-hours-lifetimes later.

Dean glanced over at him, saw the chart he held, and looked back at his unconscious brother as he murmured, "Yeah?"

Castiel – Dean had forgotten about Castiel – edged closer to Sam and reached forward with his fingers outstretched, reaching for Sam's forehead. Dean watched, eyes wide, waiting for the angel to fix Sam and prove that he was still alive and that this wasn't just a dream or an act or some mental delusion.

"Uh, are any of you gentlemen Ron Wild?" interrupted a man, and Dean span his head so quickly his neck nearly snapped itself. It was a doctor; a man, tall, young, wearing the stereotypical white coat. He smiled comfortingly at the gathering, and then his eyes reached Dean and he raised his eyebrows as if to say "I presume you're the one?"

"I'm Ron," Dean lied. His eyes slid to Bobby – who shrugged helplessly – and Castiel – who stepped away from Sam and held his hands behind his back almost suspiciously. "You're his doctor?" he asked, already knowing that it was a pretty obvious that the guy was.

The doctor stepped into the room and held his hand out for Dean to shake. Releasing Sam's wrist, Dean stood and accepted the firm handshake from the man. He wore a wedding band that was ice amongst fire when their hands meshed.

"I'm Doctor Hammond," he told Dean while smiling handsomely. He looked young – maybe younger than Dean, even. "I've been watching over Sam since he arrived yesterday morning."

"Thank you," Dean told him earnestly, if not a little embarrassedly. He huffed an awkward chuckle and continued, "I haven't known where he's been for a while now... Didn't know whether he was..." He stopped and shook his head.

"Well," Doctor Hammond said cheerfully, trying to break the tension, "there's no need to worry any more. He's well on the way to 100% health. Of course there's still some way to go yet... he's almost worn himself out entirely..." The doctor shook his head sadly, his smile turning into a depressed line. His eyes darkened and he chewed at his lip. "I don't know _how_ he managed to reach this level of fatigue..." He stared at Sam, his expression sorrowful, and then swallowed loudly as he returned his gaze to Dean. "It's almost as if he's been to Hell and back, you know?"

It was Castiel who answered grimly, "We know."

* * *

_Who here is excited for season 6? I sure am. I'm marathonning (is that a word?) season 3 right now, and I keep having random outbursts of "**OMG SEASON SIX!**" every now and again :D_

_A big thank you to the people who review - you're all such beautiful people - and those who suscribe for alerts and who favourite what I'm writing. It's an honor to know people are reading and caring about what I've scribbled down in the drafts folder of my phone! _

**That being said, wanna treat me to a review? I'll love you for it! :)**


	10. Good Morning, Starshine

**A/N: **Who here has seen the original Night Of The Living Dead? I scored the 40th anniversary DVD and I've watched it over and over. How can something so old be so awesome? I love zombies 3

Anyway, here's the latest chapter! Enjoy it (:

* * *

The first thing Dean learns is that the coffee machine at the hospital makes quite possibly the worst coffee in the entirely United States, and Dean, a veteran of cheap coffee from disgusting diners and motels, considers his word one of great authority on the matter. He told Bobby just as much as they sat either side of Sam's bed, Bobby flipping through a local newspaper searching the obituary pages, and Dean hesitantly sipping at the evil-liquid.

"It's not even a proper flavour," he moaned, pulling his face into a grimace as the taste of the coffee hit his taste buds well and true. "It's kind of... kind of _sandy?_ Like, I taste grit. Not just the dregs or anything, but really gritty, crunchy coffee." He snapped his teeth together a few times, trying hopelessly to chew the texture away. Sticking his tongue out with disgust, he held the Styrofoam cup out for Bobby to take. "Here, try it," he offered, nose scrunched.

"I've seen you eat a lot of bad stuff in my time, boy," Bobby mumbled, not looking up from the black and white of the paper, "but I've never seen your face pull those expressions before, not even when you were trying those pickled eggs I told you were rank. So no. I don't think I'll try it, thanks." He wet his finger and turned the page.

Dean sniffed, nodded, sat the cup down on the bedside table. "Good idea."

There wasn't much to do in the hospital, other than sit and drink ridiculously awful coffee that cost a ridiculously high amount. The magazine selection was also a pain in the ass. Contrary to what the hospital staff thought, not everyone was interested in _People_ magazine, circa 1991. Where were _Guns & Ammo _and _National Geographic_? He'd been degraded to solving the puzzles at the back of the magazines, and once or twice he'd even been lucky enough to find one that had an unfinished crossword waiting for him, free of rude scribbles or scratched out words.

Sometimes he watched the TV in the room, but there was never anything good on. It seemed that the only decent shows were on later at night, and even then the majority of programs were some kind of cop show, most spawned from CSI. He wished _Dr Sexy M.D_ wasn't on hiatus, because TV just sucked without it. Right now for instance, a reality show was trying to break through the static of the television with rasps of words and images flickering through the electric blizzard. He grunted angrily and switched it off with the remote, then went back to being bored.

"We should just get Cas to zap him better like he was gonna," Dean sighed, sinking into the stiff armchair and letting his feet rest on the edge of Sam's bed frame, just west of the control panel that adjusted the angle of the mattress. He looked up at the ceiling, at the long rectangular lights. "It's killing me, just waiting like this."

"Let the boy heal like he's s'posed to," Bobby instructed, still reading obits, circling one with a pink highlighter he'd charmed from the nurses desk. "He's been tampered with by enough angels and demons to last him a lifetime. Let his body do the work this time, all right?"

Dean knitted his fingers together on his stomach; a church, a steeple, open up and see the people. He frowned with dissatisfaction, watching his fingers wriggle in imitation of church-goers. He'd never felt the need for praying or religion or church, himself. Why entrust to faith what you can do on your own? Why waste time on prayers, when you can use it constructively? The faithful were confusing. Everything was confusing. _And _he was still bored.

"His body's not fast enough," he complained, looking up at his brother and silently demanding him to hurry the healing process up.

Bobby chuckled. "Oh, shush." He threw the pink highlighter at Dean and it hit him in the shoulder before bouncing to the tiles.

"You know what they say," Dean teased, smirking as he stretched down to the floor to retrieve the highlighter. "It's all fun and games until someone's eye is pierced by a girly gay highlighter and they need a glass replacement."

"Oh just go back to being quiet, will ya? You're giving me a headache," Bobby told him with mock-annoyance, accepting the pink highlighter back and returning to the paper.

Begrudgingly Dean picked up the closest issue of _People _and flipped through angrily, seeking anything at all that might interest him. The crosswords had already been filled, each little square occupied with one of the five letters that made up the word 'penis'. Whoever had completed the puzzle had obviously been Dean's kind of person. He grinned and even managed a breathless admiring laugh.

"I'm finished with the obits, if you want them," Bobby offered, a rustle of the newspaper following the suggestion.

"Nah," said Dean, the word kind of heavy on his tongue. "I'll be right." He turned the glossy pages, searching for horoscopes. They were always a laugh.

The food trolley rattled down the hallway outside, the nurse whistling. Dean knew her name was Rebecca and that she was interested in "getting to know him better". He knew what that was code for, but had somehow managed to turn her down. He'd never known he was so damn strong. The girl was seriously working some heavy-duty hotness.

"Huh!" Dean laughed scornfully, pressing the pad of his index finger to the title _Aquarius_. "Says here that I'm going to meet a tall dark stranger this week." He read on as Bobby smirked and whispered quiet laughter. "Oh and listen to this doozy," Dean continued before adopting an aloof voice and reading, "_The number 12 will cause unforseen difficulties this week. Don't trust a certain red head who wishes misfortune upon you._" He chuckled to himself, turning the page. "Never trust a ginger, Bobby. You don't need a horoscope to tell you that. I mean, look at all the evidence!" He began ticking names off of his fingers. "Chucky, Ginger Spice, Ron Weasley-"

Suddenly he was cut off by a strangled gasp, a yelp, and the abrupt thrashing of white bedsheets. Dean looked up from _People _and watched, mouth gaping, as his brother's bone-white fingers clenched into the mattress and he choked on the tubing that was down his nose and throat.

"Bobby," Dean began, ready to order useless instructions, but Bobby was already out of the door, shouting a calm, "Doctor Hammond, he's awake!"

Dean knocked the magazine to the floor and stood up, putting his hands on his brothers shoulders to prevent the frightened thrashing. "Sam!" he said loudly, snapping it at him. "Stop it! Calm down, man!"

Sam's eyes – frantic, trapped, horrified – shot to Dean's, and he stopped like he'd been hit over the head with a brick. His lips parted once, twice, three times. No words escaped. A wetness gathered in his eyes, glossing the white and green-hazel. The graze on his face looked grizzled compared to the increasingly pale white of the rest of his skin. Dean gnawed down on his lip, unsure, not knowing what to say.

The doctor and Bobby entered the room, the doctor hurrying to find a pen in his pocket and to unhook the chart from the end of Sam's bed. He smiled at Dean, as was his custom, and then smiled at Sam, a little softer, a lot sympathetic.

"Good afternoon, Sam," he sang brightly, taking Dean's spot at Sam's side. He clicked his pen and scribbled something on the chart – probably the time, Dean thought. "Do you know where you are? Can you talk?"

Sam's lips stuttered open again, words not coming to his tongue. His eyes dashed from doctor Hammond to Dean and back again. His fingers remained clamped at the bedsheets, his fingernails – short now, since the nurses cut them – pinning the white material down.

"Look at me, Sam," the man told him firmly yet not unkindly. "Now, I'm Dr. Hammond, and you're in hospital. Do you remember passing out, Sam?"

His tongue swiped out, wetting his lips, and he pushed himself up so he was sitting. His eyes returned to Dean, and Dean was sure he was grinning like an idiot - so full of relief and gratitude that grinning was impossible to deny. Bobby was beside him, tottering excitedly, on the brink of bursting excitement too.

"I" - he coughed, clearing the cobwebs from his throat - "I remember bits," Sam admitted. "People crowded me," he added slowly, eyes still shiny and wet.

"Yes," Dr. Hammond agreed, and he added more notes to the chart. "Now, about your injuries. You've got a severe... well, it looks like a burn, on your ankle."

Dean saw it - Sam's eyes bulged, tears welled, and his knuckles tightened as he crunched sheets into his hands. Dr. Hammond, it seemed, didn't notice the change.

"We've flushed your body with enough antibiotics to kill the infection you had, and we've also cleared away the dead flesh that was clinging to the wound. It was a ghastly sight; the mere smell..." He shook his head, speechless. "Provided you take care of the injury, it will heal fine. There'll be a permanent scar that will be quite visible, but at least you've kept your foot," Dr. Hammond told him – told the room, really – and Dean wondered not for the first time what it looked like underneath the bandages that circled his brother's left ankle.

"He got me," Sam muttered matter-of-factly, directing his words at Dr. Hammond but then looking to Dean as he said, "Lucifer. He got me. _Grabbed _me."

Dean's hands curled into sweaty, worried fists. He bit hard on the inside of his lips, ripping soft flesh but not drawing blood.

"Yes, about that, Sam," Dr. Hammond continued, "you mentioned this a few times to several different people, staff and citizens." He lowered the chart to his side. He lowered his voice to a friendly tone and asked, "Who's Lucifer? Are you referring to the Devil? Do you mean to say that the Devil literally grabbed your ankle?"

Sam shook his head and pressed his lips tight together, keeping the secret locked within him. Dean half expected his brother to mime sewing them together, or locking them, or throwing away an imagined key. Dean hoped it was because of the drugs and not because of some kind of mental damage that his brother was acting like a five year old.

"Not telling, huh?" Dr. Hammond guessed, sadly if anything.

Sam shook his head again, firmer. He scratched weakly at his temple and grumbled, "I still feel tired." His voice was desperate, confused, unsure. Dean squirmed.

"You're incredibly worn out, Sam," the doctor explained with an exasperated huff. "Your body has been through trauma. It needs time to recuperate."

"Then let the kid recuperate," Bobby suggested firmly. "He's already falling to sleep, and his brother hasn't even had the chance to say two words to him."

The doctor nodded his head and clicked his pen before pinning it back on the breast pocket of his coat. "You're entirely right," he agreed, headed to return the chart to the end of Sam's bed. "I'll let you all talk. Buzz if you need anything." He smiled once at all of them before sweeping out of the room, white coat right behind him as he went.

Dean waited until he heard Dr. Hammond's footsteps fade away before he hissed, "Oh my _God, _Sam!"

Sam chewed his lip flat, his face white, eyes wide, hair ruffled and in haphazard whorls. He looked young again. A child.

Dean waved a hand through the air, horrified, flailing, panicking. He remembered with a flash his brothers falling into the Earth, disappearing from view, not getting up again, not returning. He felt his chest hammer dangerously and he fought for calmness. "Why didn't you – _why_ did you – why couldn't you -"

"What your brother is _tryin' _to say," Bobby interjected, shooting Dean a scolding glance, "is that we were worried sick about you the whole damn time you were gone."

"Yeah!" Dean agreed fervently, stepping closer. "I was going nuts, Sam! Ask Bobby! He'll tell you!" He looked to the other man in the room. "Tell him, Bobby!"

"He was goin' nuts, Sam," agreed Bobby solemnly, a nod of his head, his mouth a bearded line.

Dean returned his eyes to his brother, sat back in his chair so that he was able to reach out and grab a hold of Sam's arm. He squeezed it so that it probably hurt him. "Why, Sam?" he asked pleadingly, resting his forehead to the steel rails on the side of the bed. "Why'd you just... forget about us?" he mumbled to the floor. His fingers trembled as his nails bit at Sam's skin.

"Dean," Sam croaked, "I'm sorry, but it's... it's what you'd have done, you know you'd have done it too."

He was right, Dean knew it, but sometimes being right wasn't what mattered. Dean clenched his eyes shut, blinding himself with swirling lights that lay hidden under his eyelids. He opened them again, looked at the linoleum. _People _was half hidden under the bed, spread open to a page on Princess Diana.

"I had to give you a chance," continued Sam in that voice that cried for understanding. "I owed you that, Dean." He sounded whiny. It was almost as if they were arguing over ethics again – shoot them, save them, bicker and banter. A regular argument.

"Owed me what?" Dean murmured, raising his head and looking at Sam. "I don't know what you owe me, but I know what I deserve, and that's decency. You should've called, Sam. You can't just... just pretend you're dead like that." He swallowed thickly and added, "But do tell me, what is it you owe me, Sam?"

Sam frowned. "Happiness."

Dean's fingers loosened. His nails released Sam's arm and he sat back in the chair, not touching his brother. Bobby hovered uncertainly by the end of the bed, not speaking, just watching, waiting to see if he had to intervene and fix the fight Dean had launched them into.

"Happiness?" Dean whispered, repeating it angrily. "You thought I'd be _happy_, knowing you're dead?"

He shook his head, his hair flicking before his face. "No. I thought you'd be happy if you got to be normal."

Dean wanted nothing more than to yell some more – to _really _let Sam understand how fucking _destroyed _he had been – but it just wouldn't work. Sam was alive. Dean was alive. Why waste it? Why bother with yelling and fighting? He had his brother back. He'd gotten what he wanted. Sam's reasons had been noble. He'd made a sacrifice – Dean had made a sacrifice – John had made a sacrifice; why fight over it? They'd had the same argument a thousand times in a thousand different words, a thousand different ways.

"Next time," Dean sighed as he leaned forward in his chair, fiddling with his hands in his lap, elbows resting on his knees, "when you wanna cheer me up or something, just get me a pie, buy me a beer. You know. Don't... don't die or nothing." He shook his head, dismissing the idea forever. "No more spontaneous premature dying, 'kay?"

Sam grinned. His teeth – perfect, white, razor – glinted and Dean could see his brother as just a kid, gappy teeth and fillings. Too much candy. He'd cost a fortune in dentist bills. Dean had worried himself sick then, too. _How would they afford the bills? What would they do when the checks bounced? _Those problems seemed like nothing now. Mere bumps compared to the astonishing mountains they'd since hurdled.

With a thoughtful smirk, like he was considering the terms, Sam nodded. He rubbed a hand over the crescent cuts in his forearm from where Dean's nails had pierced him, little red drops of blood beading at the breaks of white skin. "I think I can handle that," he said confidently, a warm, sleepy, tired smile spreading across his ash-white face.

"Good," Dean sighed, reassured. "That's more like it."

* * *

_I didn't know how to handle this part. __In my opinion given what I've put Dean through over the story, and had Sam not been hospitalised when he woke up, Dean would have punched him at least once. _

_I compared it to when a teenager comes home past curfew. "Where have you been? Have you ANY idea how WORRIED we have been? You could've been DEAD! You could've been TAKEN! We called EVERYONE, we even DROVE around TOWN! Give me your phone, you're never leaving the house again, you're grounded for LIFE!" That's my parents, for you. They're always mad at first. I figured that Dean would be mad at first, too. He's been freaking out, worrying that his baby brother is being cut up and tortured and thrown around like a chew toy, but then to suddenly discover that his brother ISN'T in Hell? That he's actually free on Earth, safe and sound? That all the worrying has been for nothing - for someone who doesn't even care enough to pick up the phone? Well it's pretty understandable that he's angry._

_I hope that makes sense! :) _

_**Thank you to the little angels who review! I can honestly say that you guys are the nicest people on the internet :) It's great talking to you guys, because I only have one real life friend who watches the show and she's too obsessed with True Blood right now to bother fangirling with me, and talking about it with my little sister gets boring after we've accidentally recited each entire episode in quotes.**_

_**To the lurkers who I know are reading: c'mon, leave us a review, will you? Pretty please? Even anonymous reviews are spectacular!**_

**_:)_**


	11. Don't Let The Bed Bugs Bite

**A/N: **Okay, sorry for the massive delay between updates. I have no real excuse for my lateness either, but I'll list a few for you anyway: I got slack. I lost inspiration. Writers block. Monkey stole my laptop.

I'll be wrapping this story up soon - I can't think of where else I can take it. No use in flogging a dead horse, right? :P

Thanks for sticking with me, my lovelies! Thanks to all those who review/favourite/alert to this story that started as a one-shot drabble and spawned into _this _monster_._ xx

* * *

If Sam was allowed, he'd have checked himself out of the hospital two weeks earlier. As it was, there wasn't a soul in the world who'd let him out of his bed, let alone out of the hospital to return to a life of chasing the deadly and dangerous. He was helpless; a kid again, grounded and forced to swallow spoonfuls of "healing" soup and "nutritious" meals. Hospital food tasted neither healing nor nutritious, but he endured the bland meals with the knowledge that his brother would sneak something edible in to him later. Sometimes just fruit, other times a simple sandwich he'd made before coming.

Dean had made it a habit to visit Sam each afternoon, sometimes coming in as early as ten in the morning when he had nothing else to do or kill, while other times barely making it to the hospital in time to exchange a quick converastion before visiting hours were over. Occasionally Bobby would accompany him, a sad but relieved smile dancing around his bearded lips. Quite often Castiel would come along with Dean, watching for most of the visit and only speaking when he deemed it necessary. Dean didn't seem to care if they came with him or not – he barely acknowledged them when they were there, anyway. His attention was always zeroed to Sam and Sam alone.

"Are you feeling better? Are they treating you good? Does this hurt? Has it healed over yet? Still bleeding? What'd you eat for lunch? The nurses hot here? Why'd that thing beep? Where's your doctor? What'd they say about the new bruise? Things going okay, Sammy?" He was a flood of questions, always prodding and poking and checking things. He was worse than Dr. Hammond.

There was one question, however, that Dean never failed to fire at him each time he visited:

"_So_... a_re you sleeping well?_"

Maybe it was because of how well Dean knew him, or maybe it was more to do with the fact that Dean had experienced Hell for himself and knew firsthand the trauma it left, but Dean saw straight through Sam's energetic grins and bright tone to what he was struggling to hide. Dean most certainly knew that Sam was having nightmares of Hell.

"I slept like an angel," Sam was fond of replying, and on the days when Castiel was there too, he'd smirk at him and watch as Castiel frowned and murmured something along the lines of, _"Angels don't sleep..." _Dean always narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips, and stayed silent. He'd never been one for fishing for emotional moments.

The thing was, no good would come from telling Dean about the dreams. They were only nightmares, after all. Nightmares of things that had already happened, had already passed, and would never _ever _happen again. He had no reason to be afraid of the things he saw as he slept, and even less reason to share those things with his brother. Dean didn't need to know. Didn't need to know any of it.

Sometimes, though... sometimes it was Adam. That was the hardest part. The dreams veered off-course from the regular pattern – _Lucifer, burning, agony, screams –_ and instead he saw his brother, the one he hardly knew, never had the chance to. Adam, screaming, pleading, bleeding, begging. On the mornings after he had the dreams of Adam he'd wake up and feel the overpowering need to cry rising in his chest, and he'd struggle to swallow the terror he felt. He told himself that the Adam Dreams were exactly that – dreams. No truth to them. Of course Adam wasn't being hurt. God wouldn't have allowed Sam freedom and not Adam, who was innocent and young and unjustly harmed.

That still didn't ease his nights. Nothing did.

It didn't help at all that his ankle hurt like a bitch. Not as bad as it _had _been, sure, but it was still a massive pain in his ass – the constant sting, the burn, the tweaking zap of pain whenever he accidentally turned his foot and enraged the injury. The daily inspections of the wound did no good to him, either. It always brought painful tears to the corners of his eyes as Dr. Hammond prodded the oozing burn with gloved hands, careful not to tear the healing flesh or to poke _too _hard.

"We've both got big ol' hand prints now, haven't we?" Dean once said during a visit when he'd come alone, no Cas or Bobby or Dr. Hammond to stand awkwardly in the corner. He'd rubbed his hand over his arm where beneath the sleeve of his shirt Castiel's handprint was scarred into his flesh. "Matching pair, hey?" He'd smiled. It was hopeful.

Sam's returning smile was bitter. "Heaven," he murmured, eyes on his brother, "and Hell," he finished, eyes dragging down to his feet where the sting of his ankle throbbed under his gaze.

* * *

"Your brother," Castiel remarked, following Dean out of the hospital. It was dark outside, nearly eight. "You know he lies to you when you ask about his sleep, don't you?"

Dean glared at the asphalt accusingly, blaming it for his troubles. "Yeah, I know," he answered sadly. "He looks half-dead most of the time. There's no way anyone would believe he's been getting his full eight hours."

Castiel kept the pace beside Dean, not letting himself fall behind as Dean hurried through the dark car park in search of the Impala. The angel asked, "He dreams of Hell, you suppose?"

"I'd hazard a guess and say yes," muttered Dean. He wasn't in the mood for conversation. He thought of having a drink before hitting the hay and that dramatically lifted his spirits. A little drink, just to calm him down. Smooth things out. Turn everything rubbery and flexible and wipe away the drama and the pain. Easy. Just a little drink before sleep. That was all he needed.

The Impala became visible between a SUV and a Volvo. It shone in the dark, illuminated by the faint rays of light from a lamppost that was nearby. Dean searched for his keys in his pocket, the cool silver a refreshing temperature in his hand.

"He seems to be growing stronger," Castiel commented, pleased. "A few more weeks and he'll be walking amongst us again." He almost said it proudly.

"Hm," was all Dean was able to say. His eyes felt hot and scratchy as he unlocked the doors to the car and his eyelids sagged heavily with exhaustion as he sat on the leather inside. He rubbed at them irritably; tired, grumpy, thirsty.

They drove in silence; Dean didn't even have the heart to turn on the radio or to press play on the current cassette. Instead they sped back to the motel with the engine the only sound, excluding the occasional chord of a hum from Castiel. Castiel was happy. Dean felt it was a little strange to be happy when one of their number was injured, but then he remembered that they'd saved the world, that the devil was gone, and that by all rights they all ought to be ecstatic.

Just... Dean was just so _tired. _

That night Dean fell asleep with a drained bottle of beer in his hand and a hangover already looming above his swirling, sleeping head. A litter of aluminum cans and glass bottles were strewn across the room from previous nights, creating a minefield of obstacles to dodge when walking over the room. Across town his brother lay awake in a hostile white bed, eyes trained on the dark ceiling as he counted the seconds between night and morning. His fingers gripped at the blankets, knuckles straining white. His eyelid twitched restlessly.

He could almost hear the whispers of his nightmares at his ear... He could hear the screams...

* * *

**Review for the poor girl? Pretty please? **

**xo**


	12. Rest Assured

**A/N: **So, the inspiring flood of messages to my inbox fuelled me on to write all of this so quickly after updating the last chapter. You can only blame yourselves, you kind people! *points at the kind people*

This chapter was particularly inspired by **cornev **who mentioned Adam in her review. So, here you go. Some Adam.

_Yet again: THANK YOU. You've no idea how much all your reviews mean to me. :) Thank you, thank you, thank you. xxx_

* * *

Dean stood up and lifted his arms above his head, stretching. His joints popped and he rotated his neck, testing it, trying the aches and pulling them taut. He yawned a little, and rubbed at his nose with his balled fist, the image of a sleepy child.

"Hey... I'm going to go get some coffee or something," he declared, sleep-hazed and quiet. He looked to his brother for permission; he didn't want to leave when he was still needed.

"Sure thing," Sam muttered, a passive smile on his lips. It was weak against the white contrast of his skin – his eyes were shadowed with exhaustion and the chapped skin of his lips looked almost painful, worn thin from worrying teeth. The lines around his eyes and mouth were deep and prominent, the souvenirs of a restless night.

Dean started for the doorway, stumbling a little on his wonky feet. He looked over his shoulder when he didn't hear the familiar sound of following footsteps. "Cas? You comin'?"

Castiel, who for the most of the visit had been silently observing Sam and Dean and watching whatever program was featured on the television (some talk show, many women, loud voices, obnoxious guests) slowly shook his head in a long, slow sweeping movement. He smiled in response to Dean's automatic frown of surprise.

"I'll wait here," he explained. He patted one hand on the white spread of Sam's hospital bed and added, "I'll keep Sam company."

Dean looked suspiciously at Castiel before he grumbled, "You better not be up to anything, or I swear I'll get all blood-sigil on your angelic ass."

Sam chuckled quietly, sleepily. Both he and Castiel watched as Dean left, both slightly wishing for him to stay. When his footsteps became quiet echoes down the hallway, Castiel turned his head to Sam and wet his lips with a swipe of his tongue, readying himself to speak.

"There isn't a doubt in my mind that your brother is dead," he announced out of nowhere. Sam stared at him with shock. Colour flashed in his cheeks – more colour than he'd seen in a month and a half.

Sam cleared his throat, awkward. "What makes you say that?" he asked with a notable amount of trepidation in his tone.

Castiel shrugged his shoulders from beneath the tan material of his coat. "It is a feeling I have, which I trust."

"_I_ was dead," Sam pointed out, as though that was enough evidence to declare his point forever true.

"Oh, and I had no idea," Castiel growled. Sam's eyebrows shot to his hairline.

"Wow," he murmured, slightly appreciative. "Sarcasm."

With a tired roll of his eyes, Castiel huffed a sigh of impatience.

Sam ignored the sigh. Lack of sleep was probably responsible for his irritability, but neither he nor anyone else cared to point that out. They were all still ignoring the elephant in the room that was titled _"Sam's not sleeping"._

"I was saved, something saved me," he continued, "so who's to say that the same didn't happen to Adam?" He heard the desperation in his own voice, and was sure the angel could hear it as well.

Castiel rubbed his eyes and pinched his nose, the perfect portrayal of annoyance. Finally he raised his sharp eyes to Sam's and asked, slow and purposefully, "Where was it that you regained consciousness?"

With an audible gulp, Sam answered, "The cemetery. Lawrence." His eyes brushed over the empty chair at his bedside where up until moments ago, Dean had been slumped in a light sleep. He wished Dean was still there, ready to help distract Castiel.

"And?" Castiel prompted. At Sam's blank expression he elaborated, "Were you alone?"

Sam scowled, knowing his answer would discredit what he wanted to prove. "That's not the point."

"It's where the body is buried that it is resurrected." Castiel picked at the cuticle of his thumb, eyes on Sam. "Had Adam been spared by Him, he'd have been with you when you woke up."

Throwing his head back so that it met the pillow with a soft _oof_, Sam shut his eyes and bit down at his lower lip. His forehead involuntarily wrinkled with worry and dismay and annoyance. He couldn't see a way to fix things.

"Have you considered...," Castiel began, "the fact that Adam was dead already? He died before any of this began. The ghouls ended his human life; the angels only brought him back. It was unnatural."

Sam could feel Castiel's eyes on him, but he didn't open them. Maybe he wouldn't have nightmares while in the presence of an angel. That seemed plausible. He tried for sleep.

"What was his version of Heaven?" Castiel asked, fishing for Sam's attention. His voice was low and it reverberated through Sam despite his attempt at sleeping.

"Prom," Sam grunted. He was so tired. It hurt to open his eyes, so he didn't.

"Maybe," the angel murmured far too quietly, like Sam was underwater and everything was warped, "he's back at the prom? Wouldn't it be fair and just for God to spare a departed soul of Hell, and to return it to it's proper home, amongst the innocent, in Heaven?"

Sam found that his tongue was tired as well, and to speak required more strength than he currently had. He fought unconsciousness off with a garbled, "Guess so."

Castiel sighed again. Accomplished, now. His exhale of air carried a victorious sweetness to it which Sam found comforting. The angel was pleased. That must mean things were going well, mustn't it?

"It is my opinion that Adam Milligan has returned to Heaven, where he belongs," finished Castiel, and it was a finish, because he said it in such a resolved way that Sam could almost hear the book closing, and the lights turning out. "He's at peace."

Sam's teeth gently released his lip from their iron-clad grip. Feeling flooded through the painful numbed area of his lip and he ran his dry tongue over it uselessly. It felt like paper. Rough, chapped paper.

Yes, maybe he wouldn't dream in the presence of an angel. Maybe Castiel would ward off the memories – the illusions – of Hell.

He'd just have to try it and see.

* * *

A country song churned from the stereo, some generic Minnesota tune. Adam wrinkled his nose, annoyed. He wished they'd play better music, but his town and the people his age were more fascinated with heavy metal, techno and, of course, country music. Was it too much to ask for a little Led Zeppelin? A little AC/DC? He sighed and rubbed his forehead before reaching into the breast pocket of his suit and pulling out the flask he'd filled with whiskey beforehand. The silver was cool on his lips, but the whiskey burned on the way down. He took it with a smirk.

"You could get in a lot of trouble doing that," a voice told him. It was a girl, and she spoke in a way that brought an easy grin to Adam's lips. He didn't hide the flask; he turned on his heel and held it out for her to take.

"Here," he offered, shaking the flask a little, careful not to jolt any liquid out of the opening. "Want some?"

Kristin McGee giggled, cheeks flushing and the gloss of her lips shining in the low lights of the school gymnasium. She raised a hand – all five nails expertly painted a shell pink – and tucked a long curl of blonde behind her ear. Her eyelashes were longer than Adam had ever seen before; they left shadows on her pale cheeks, stripes like bar-codes.

"Really?" she asked him, daring him. Her lips twitched.

"Sure," said Adam breezily, a shrug of his shoulders. He held it out further, knowing it would only be a matter of time before she accepted it.

Her eyes were alive with flirtatious sparks of adrenalin as she took the silver flask from his hand and brought it to her lips. She swallowed gracefully, the muscles of her throat working as the liquid travelled down. Adam watched, enthralled.

"Thanks," she whispered when she'd taken enough. She wiped her hand across her mouth and handed the flask back to him. He was twisting the cap back on when she stepped closer and leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek; her hair brushed over his skin, soft and warm, and her perfume smelled of roses.

"Come on," Kristin urged when she stepped back again. Her fingers weaved between his and she tugged him towards the exit, the red of her dress leading him forward like a moth to the flame. "Let's go." Her smile – white, razor sharp, beautiful – cut through the dark of the cheap budget prom and for that moment Adam didn't care that the music was lame and the other kids weren't even dancing. He just followed her, a smile on his lips that not even the memory of Hell, angels and the devil could erase.

For that moment – for eternity – he was happy.

* * *

_More A/N: I wasn't sure what version of Adam to write - the one we saw in Jump The Shark, who was innocent and sweet, or the one we saw in Point Of No Return, who was angry. Mind you, he had a right to be angry. I'm sure we'd all be pretty ticked if we'd just been eaten by ghouls and roped into some apocalyptic plan to save the world. I decided that he'd be more like Dean than Sam, so I wrote him with a flask and a passion for short skirts, bright smiles and big boobs. I reckon that's most boys for you ;)_

_Now he's got his happy ending, living in Heaven, always making out with Kristin McGee._

What are your thoughts on Adam? Did you like him? It took me a while to warm to him, but now I think he's a pretty awesome character. I'm incredibly curious to see what happens to him in season 6, and how he'll be involved in the storyline. What do you guys think will happen to him?

**Reviews, as always, are appreciated! xxx**


	13. Peace When You Are Done

**A/N: **Sorry for the belated update! I've been uninspired recently.

Thanks for reading, guys. You're frantabulous.

* * *

Whatever Bobby was using to wash his linen with, it clearly wasn't doing its job properly. Little grains of dirt gathered inside the blankets, ready to scratch at Sam's bare feet and make him grimace as he imagined how many insects no doubt inhabited the mattress and crawled out at night to chew at the dead skin of his heels. There were stains, too. Great rust coloured splotches that decorated the blankets like a child with dark red paint all over their chubby star hands had been let loose at them. Sam figured that it wasn't paint. He was bedridden, sure, but he wasn't stupid. He knew it was blood. He tried his hardest to lay his head where there was the least amount of blood stains, but he could never be sure if he'd wake up drooling into a rusty-brown splotch of dried blood on his pillowcase.

If there was ever a competition for Worlds Most Persistent Brother, Dean would win first prize, second prize, and even take home third, too. Dr. Hammond had said in a brief, casual sigh as he escorted Sam and Dean out of the hospital, "Make sure you get some bed rest, okay?" and Dean in all his infinite wisdom had translated that to, "Don't let him out of bed until he's completely insane, okay?" because that was clearly what he was intending on doing. It had been three days, and Sam was yet to be allowed out of Bobby's guest room, except for trips to the bathroom and even then he required supervision.

"I was allowed to walk around at the hospital," Sam pointed out unhappily, arms folded over his chest and his lips puckered in a childish pout as he stared at his brother.

Dean picked up a discarded shirt from the floor and folded it roughly before tossing it to the foot of Sam's bed. His shoulders hitched in a shrug and he sighed, "You're not in hospital anymore, Dorothy."

"Exactly," grumbled Sam. "I'm a free man now. You gotta let me out of bed, man."

Looking at Sam with his big, decided eyes, Dean shook his head in long decisive sweep. "You stagger like a drunk sailor when you're standing, Sam. I'm not trusting you on your feet until I'm sure you're steadfast."

Sam rolled his eyes, bunched his fists, and huffed, "That's such a stupid excuse." He hoped his Bitchface was working, because it was tiring to look so pissed off all the time.

As he walked out the door Dean called back to him, "You're staying in bed until I'm sure you're fixed, Sammy. Rules are rules."

With a grunt of frustration Sam dropped his head back into his pillow and glared up at the cracked ceiling. "This is _bullshit!_" he sang after Dean and he could have sworn that he heard Dean laugh as he descended the staircase.

* * *

It was as Sam flipped through an ancient copy of _People _(an out-of-place relic that Sam had been shocked to find in the bedside table amongst vintage pornos and car magazines) that Bobby dragged Dean into the bedroom by the scruff of his collar. Dean glared daggers at the older man but didn't fight him off, a sign of his respect. Or maybe he'd already tried to escape and Bobby had upstaged him. It was possible.

"Sam, you up for a walk?" Bobby asked a little breathlessly as he stood there, holding Dean like a dog holds its pup.

Sam blinked at the scene, astonished. "Uh... sure?"

Bobby released Dean's collar and clapped his hands together and rubbed them merrily, looking like an evil mastermind who was plotting the doom of mankind and was quite confident in the success of his plan. Dean just stared sulkily at Sam, lip jutting out and brow drawn over his eyes.

"Why the sudden change of mind?" Sam asked as he pushed off the blankets – _eugh, stains _– and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He looked at Dean and cocked his head curiously.

Dean didn't answer; he just sniffed unhappily and looked stubbornly at the wall, studying the piss-yellow wallpaper like somewhere within its cracks and water stains there lay the key to immortality.

With a gruff laugh Bobby remarked, "I call it persuasion, but in layman's terms it's more commonly known as coercion."

"No," Dean grumbled, eyeing the older man angrily, "it's called _abuse_."

Bobby chuckled and playfully cuffed Dean on the shoulder. "You ain't seen nothin' yet, darling."

Dean's lips jerked with the beginning of a smile and he implored Sam, "See? Abuse!"

Sam grinned at them and brushed his newly trimmed hair back over his scalp, feeling the fine hairs easily slide under his palm, the product of new shampoo and no dead ends. He wriggled his toes and pressed his feet solidly on the floorboards before standing up, revelling in the feeling that it brought about.

"Would you look at that?" Bobby murmured. "The boy isn't dead or dying, is he?" He nudged Dean with his elbow and Dean just rolled his eyes.

"I never said he'd die if he stood up, I just said it'd be better if he waited until his ankle-"

"It's as healed as it's ever gon' be, boy," Bobby interrupted solemnly and _Hell_ if he didn't sound mournful. His eyes hovered on Sam's bare ankle where the skin puckered and swirled, too shiny to look natural, hairless in comparison to the rest of his shin. Sam himself stared down at it as he held the leg of his pyjama pants so it revealed the wound, bile in his throat as he studied the ugly scar.

Dean's voice was thick with sadness as he sighed, "I guess your scar is just... worse than the others we've seen, huh?" Sam looked over at him in time to see Dean's eyes lift from Sam's ankle to his face, the depths of his green irises filled with remorse and misplaced guilt.

"Not many people can say they've been touched by Lucifer and have the scars to prove it," Sam pointed out brightly in an attempt to lighten the suddenly sour mood, a smile hinting at his mouth. Bobby returned it, if only out of pity.

Deciding enough chit-chat was enough, Sam braced himself to walk. Almost too quickly he shakily limped to stand with Bobby and Dean, the motion of walking feeling cramped and neglected, like it had been far too long since he'd last stretched his legs. From beside Sam, Bobby inconspicuously held his arm at an angle that showed he was there to hold on to, should Sam need the support.

There was no real pain in his ankle as he walked, just a deep seeded burn that Sam no longer acknowledged. It was there to stay, so why dwell upon it? That was his theory, anyway. The skin of his scar was unpleasantly tight, stretched taut and unmovable by the burn, and it tugged as he walked. That didn't cause any agony, so he was content. Other than those minor irks, he was completely and miraculously healed.

"Let's just be thankful I didn't lose the foot, okay?" Sam told them, looking directly at Dean. It had been close at one stage – gangrene had nearly taken him as a victim.

"Let's be thankful you're not _dead_, I think!" Bobby countered, and Sam nodded enthusiastically. Truer words had never been spoken.

Dean sighed with a quiet sort of resignation, "A limp and a scar is a pretty ace deal, considering that's what you got for stopping the apocalypse."

"Guess so," agreed Sam, grinning now. He wriggled his toes and stretched high on them, testing his limits, feeling the burn in his bones and the uncomfortable stiffness of his skin. "I fared pretty well, didn't I?"

"Sure did, Sammy."

* * *

Bobby's snores were drowned out by the thumping bass of AC/DC as Dean returned to the table with two new bottles of beer in either hand, two more bottles to join the sea of empty ones that were clustered over the tabletop. He shuffled as he walked, the tell-tale sign of his intoxication, and he sang waveringly along to the song, too quiet to hear but too loud to ignore. His grin was soft and honest, and it never disappeared.

"I've missed beer," Sam announced with a hiccup as Dean sat down opposite him and slid Sam's bottle across the scarred tabletop, bowling over two empty bottles as he did. They rolled noisily to the floor, miraculously not shattering. "No alcohol in hospital, nope!" He laughed with a surprisingly loud cough of sound, then clapped his hands over his mouth as he worried he'd woken Bobby.

They both looked at the older man who lay slumped over the kitchen table, his head buried within his folded arms and his face hidden from view. He reeked of beer and whiskey and his hat had fallen under the table and his balding scalp was shiny under the glow of the kitchen lights. He was dead to the world.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, torso wobbling as he tried to sit upright without falling, Dean sat his bottle to the table. "We haven't gotten wasted together in..." He stopped and squinted as he tried to calculate. "I dunno," he finally admitted, and both brothers spluttered with woozy laughter. "It's just been a while!" he chuckled, wiping at tears of laughter. Why was everything so funny when you're drunk, Sam wondered.

Sam raised his bottle to his mouth and swallowed as much as he could at once before letting out a large, loud belch. Dean whooped appreciatively and Bobby's snores wavered for a moment before evening out once more, this time slightly louder.

"Remember that time... that time in Richardson?" Sam slurred with a grin, pointing the neck of his bottle at his brother. "Remember? With the... the bottle and the glue?"

"Tulpa," Dean hiccupped, nodding, swallowing down either vomit or too much saliva. "Those nerdy guys? With the... the website. TV show ones? Zeddmore?"

Sam nodded jerkily, ecstatic that Dean knew what he was talking about. "Remember I glued that bottle to your hand? Remember?" He wheezed as he laughed at the memory and he clutched a hand at his chest, clawing his fingers into the fabric of his shirt almost as though he was clinging for life. He was drunker than he'd been in years.

Dean laughed loudly and clapped his hands once or twice. Bobby slept soundly through it, snoring like a machine despite all the noise. The song changed to something by Pink Floyd (Sam was too drunk to decipher titles) and Sam hummed childishly along, drunk and stupid.

"Remember when you were fourteen and I put that" – Dean clicked his fingers, lost for words, then gasped when it returned to him – "_Nair!_ That Nair stuff in your shampoo?"

Sam snorted beer out through his nose and it sprayed like a fine hose over the table, burning at his nostrils as it came. They both laughed harder still, even Sam, whose nose dripped beer like a faucet and his eyes burned red with laughter-tears.

They kept talking, drunkenly dragging up ever humorous memory from the past 20 odd years.

The time Dean got his hand stuck in an exhaust pipe when he was a kid and their dad hadn't know what to do.

The time Sam bit right through his finger and needed stitches.

The time their dad fainted at the dentist.

The time Pastor Jim bought them walkie-talkies for Christmas and they spent an hour playing cops 'n' robbers with them in between the pews.

The time Sam fell in the toilet as a five year old and it was Dean's job to get him out.

The time Dean ate mouldy, disgusting, month old pizza and vomited for the next 12 hours.

The times came thick and fast and they laughed until they fell asleep at the table, their snoring joining Bobby's as the sun rose pink and orange across the sky of the junkyard and the light shone in through the window to tickle their eyelids and warm their faces. When Bobby woke up, groggy and heavy headed, he snorted at the scene before stumbling off to find some Tylenol.

For the first time in a long time, there was nothing to worry about.

* * *

**~SEASON SIX~ THIS FRIDAY! EEEEEEEEEEE!  
ARE WE ALL EXCITED? I SURE AM!**


	14. Epilogue

**A/N: **This is the end, folks :) Thanks for sticking it out this far.

* * *

Sam reluctantly hoisted the leg of his jeans up to his knee, showing his scar to Gloria who oohed and ahhed and made sympathetic coos. When she leaned down to gently run her fingers over the ruined skin she flashed an eyeful of cleavage and a sharp cut of white teeth in a grin. Dean appreciatively sneaked a peak, whereas Sam, forever the chaste one, averted his eyes like he was staring into the sun.

"Yep," Dean sighed sadly, like he was still trapped in the mindset of two months prior. He swirled his beer bottle so the liquid inside sloshed against the glass; he'd always loved that sound. "Really burned him, it did. He was trapped beneath that beam for three hours before they found him. Must've been agony, hey, Sammy?" He looked at Sam with a 'do-as-I-say' smile.

Rolling his eyes to his brother, Sam grumbled tonelessly, "Real agony."

"You poor baby," Gloria clucked, and she pressed a glossy kiss to his ankle, leaving the pink shadow of her lips on his skin. Sam swallowed loudly and Dean wriggled his eyebrows with encouragement. "Does it hurt?"

"N- I mean, _yeah_," Sam lied, taking the hint from Dean's suddenly sharp glare. "Hurts like a bitch."

Gloria stood up again, unfolding her long, perfect legs. They stretched for miles, only stopping when they reached the denim of her tiny Daisy Duke shorts. She smiled at Sam, eyes soft and doe-like. "Wanna come back to my place with me? Maybe we could talk about it?" Her hair hung around her face innocently, glittering blonde and silver in the lights of the bar. Her blue eyes twinkled and Dean was sure he was looking at the kind of girl men only dream of.

He couldn't believe he was passing her up.

Sam's eyes widened with shock and he stared at her wordlessly before Dean stepped in with a suave, "He'd _love_ to."

She bounced with happiness. "Great! I'll just go get my purse, okay?" Gloria pointed over her shoulder at where she'd left her friends (all of whom were not-so-secretly watching), and then with a flirty smile and a flick of blonde hair, she was disappearing to retrieve her things.

"Told you, man," Dean announced with a pleased sigh. He sucked on his beer bottle, swallowing the remains, and then he added, "Chicks dig scars." That was just elementary.

Sam followed after Gloria, a dazed smile all over his face, and Dean grinned after them from his table. It took less than five minutes for another girl – pretty, with red hair and green eyes, wearing a plunging neckline and a pair of tight ripped jeans – to take Sam's place. It took less than ten minutes her and Dean to leave together, arms linked and smiles both identically seductive.

It seemed as though the past few years had just been a run of bad luck. The horizon looked bright. They were out of the woods, and be damned if it wasn't the best Dean had ever felt.

* * *

**THANK YOU ALL WHO ARE READING THIS.  
I most certainly wouldn't have had the persistence to finish this had you not all been reading  
and reviewing like you have been. Thanks :)  
****This goes especially for those of you who consistently left reviews for each chapter - you know who you are, you little angels - and made me smile each time  
I checked my inbox and there were more notifications.**

**Since this is the end of this tale, why don't you leave me a review? **

**Send me a PM, guys! Let's discuss the season premiere! What were your thoughts?  
My opinion is leaning towards _'holy shit, what've they done to my boys?'  
_**

**I LOVE YOU ALL :)**


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